Mirror, Mirror (a Wonka Tale)
by Wonkaverse
Summary: A Wonka Company experiment goes horribly wrong, creating an alternate reality in which Charlie Bucket never finds the Golden Ticket, the Company is forced out of business, and Veruca Salt rules the world! Rated M mainly for violence, occasional language, and some suggestive material.
1. Prologue, Part 1

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

* * *

 _Imperial Residence, Southern England_

"...it's nothing but a desolate wasteland, crawling with the most terrible beasts known to mankind...hornswagglers and snozzwangers, and those terrible, wicked whangdoodles. And the Oompa-loompas, so small and defenseless, were gobbled up left and right. A whangdoodle would eat ten of them for breakfast and come galloping back for a second helping. So in great secrecy, I transported them here to my factory, away from all the snozzwangers and hornswagglers and whangdoodles. They're safe, and happy, and free..."

The sound track ended with a click, a thick silence following the rich voice of the recorded speaker, who had been nothing more than a paid actor rather than the man who had actually spoken the words at one time or another. Of course, the true speaker had always been reclusive, even before his mysterious death. These had been among the most cherished words of William Wonka.

A hand reached up to the disc player, pressed the EJECT button, and collected the disc that emerged, the person to which it belonged sighing with wistfulness and disconsolate demeanor. _It was all too long ago_ , he thought to himself, turning the silicon device in his hands, pausing at the reflective side to study his facial features. His eyes, bloodshot and tired, his face painted a clownlike pattern of orange and white, and his hair...dyed a ridiculous shade of green! He sighed again, too saddened to feel anything close to disdain. It was all part of the Empress's game. The Oompa-loompas, like most of her "pets", had been mere curiosities for a while...she would have them kept in cages and fed treats as if they were some kind of animal. Then, to the Loompas' horror, she wanted to have them perform for her, as a little dog would for his master. It was an act of shaming, they realized, a way to break them of their pride. Many of them refused to dance, refused to sit and lie down and roll over and fetch...but the Empress was not perturbed. If someone didn't listen to her, she would see they would pay for it. And those Loompas did…all the way. Thirty lashes became the alternative to singing and dancing for her Highness's pleasure, fifteen lashes across the back, and fifteen against the chest. And there was no guarantee the Whip Bearer would hit the correct place every time. The first torture session rendered Loompas with bloody backs, chests, legs, faces, shoulders, and other places that are too painful to mention. And after seeing the pain and suffering caused to the first set of slaves, well...it didn't take long until they decided that shame was better than mutilation.

Soon there were performances held, Oompa-loompas singing praises to the Empress Salt and her glorious reign, often in dramatic songlike form reminiscent of the Russian Red Army Choir. They danced, performing delightful acrobatic maneuvers that sometimes ended in a gruesome fashion, because the performers were not allowed to practice. When this happened, however, the Empress was more than pleased...her laughter could be heard from her place on the balcony overlooking the theater stage where these charades were held. And though these desperate attempts to serve the Empress was enough to keep the Loompas alive (or most of them anyway), it served to make them sadder and sadder. The cheer they showed when they danced or sang was only an act, of course, much like the kind that circus performers put on with their makeup and other costumes before going before an expectant crowd. No one wants to see a sad face, or a depressed actor, because it makes for bad show business...and in the Loompas' case could get them punished, or worse, executed. So the Oompa-loompas put a smile on when they played for the Empress and her officers and officials, who were entertained...for a while. When Her Majesty finally became bored with them, she thought to put them back on display as before, which the Loompas wanted more desperately than ever, but she had a revelation. The Oompa-loompas, being part of the human gene pool, were able to do things that the Empress's other pets could not, namely follow her orders. She had many times before tried to find a solution to this...she got trained squirrels, but none would listen to her, only pelting her with nuts and garbage and the like, so of course she had them executed. She tried androids and service-bots, which were obedient enough…but what she really wanted was something that could fear her. And now, looking into the cages of fearful Oompa-loompas, she realized she had exactly what she wanted.

Empress Salt did the worst thing to an Oompa-loompa that could ever have happened: she made them her slaves. She had six to be her personal attendants, ten to handle her calls and letters and other things like that, four to dress her, three to relay messages for her, hundreds of others to do various housework and things within the enormous estate that had become her primary residence: food tasters, jesters, even one Loompa to read to her before bed (she had forgotten how to read because she didn't have to). And as if this form of bondage were not enough, she made them all wear ridiculous costumes for uniforms...white overalls and brown-striped shirts, which were both idiotic in appearance and very uncomfortable to wear. They worked night and day, getting little if any sleep, and had terrible nightmares whenever they did sleep. Poor Oompa-loompas. The one holding the disc sighed again, placing the disc in a protective case before slipping it into his uniform. He had saved the disc from being destroyed so long ago, and was able to actually play it during his break, though he had to be extremely careful. If anyone discovered what he had...

"Slaaave!" The piercing voice of Veruca Salt echoed down the hall, and the Loompa stiffened, taking a moment to collect himself. _She wouldn't know, she couldn't possibly. She just wants something, I hope._

He ran out into the large living area, where the Empress was reclining atop a luxurious sofa, wrapped in soft furs and robes that made her look almost beautiful...had it not been for the ever-present scowl on her face. And that was not the only thing wrong. She had been very beautiful once…and still was from a distance…but up close the damage was visible. More and more cosmetics were needed to hide what her favorite indulgences were steadily doing to her…the dark bags under her eyes, the premature wrinkles in her skin. Her nose bled frequently from the things she inhaled, and her arms, the Loompa knew, were covered in countless dark lines beneath her silk sleeves, marking where she injected herself with some of her various cocktails of drugs. Not that she was under the influence at the moment…unfortunately. Her eyes locked on the Loompa. "Slave, I want chocolate."

"Y-yes, milady." The Loompa reached for a box of Chadworth candy that was sitting on a glass table, no further than a foot away from where the Empress sat. Two young Oompa-loompa women were just cleaning up after giving the Empress a manicure, and Her Highness clearly did not wish to mar her freshly-painted nails. But even under other circumstances she hated to exert herself, and so she sometimes ordered a servant to feed her anyway…just to drive home the point that she could have anything she wanted, anytime. She tilted her head back, mouth open wide. The Loompa plucked a chocolate from the assorted sweets and stretched to drop it into her mouth, grimacing at the stink of alcohol on her breath. _Why, oh why?…Thousands of men around the world would kill for the chance to drop a bit of chocolate in your mouth, you nasty whore, but somehow it falls to me…_ He paused, strongly reminded of someplace he had been before, or rather, one of his predecessors. _The perfect position for assassination..._

"WELL?" the Empress's harsh demand startled him out of his thoughts and he jerked, the chocolate flying out of his hands and onto the floor. The Loompa jumped off the couch and dove for it, bashing his head against the glass table in the process. The Empress snorted, amused, but grimaced when he returned with the chocolate. "I don't want it anymore; it's been on the floor and it's dirty. Throw it away."

The Loompa nodded, and proceeded to walk toward one of the numerous miniature waste incinerators that were located around the estate. But he couldn't throw away chocolate... he pretended to, but slipped the candy into his pocket, then returned to the Empress. She gave him her trademark glare. "Well, my appetite for chocolate is gone...besides, I never thought much of Chadworth's goods anyway, despite him owning all the candy companies out there." She propped her feet up on the table, sighing in some form of contentment. She gestured to the Loompa with the wave of a hand. "I want you to go away now, servant. I will call if I want anything else."

The Loompa bowed, though she couldn't see, grateful that she had the mercy to actually sleep once in a while. He rushed out of the room and pressed his back against the wall, reaching into his pocket and grabbing the chocolate, staring at it with a greedy look in his eyes. It had melted a little in his pocket and stuck to his fingers, but that scarcely mattered. He hadn't had chocolate for as long as he could remember, just the same rations of stale bread, water, cabbage, potatoes, and moldy bits of whatever was thrown away in the imperial wastebins. It was enough to keep the Oompa-Loompas alive, of course, but made them crave one food more than ever: the cacao bean. _And chocolate is made out of the cacao bean_ , the Loompa said to himself as he admired the sticky thing in his hands. After a moment, he ate the whole thing, devouring it in one bite. And oh, how creamy and wonderful it tasted! It was low quality chocolate (having been made by Chadworth, who liked quantity rather than quality), but after all that bland food it was the best chocolate he had ever tasted. He licked his fingers, savoring the taste, and was disappointed when the candy was completely dissolved in his mouth, gone. But the taste remained, however, ingrained into his mind forever, like the Oompa-loompa desire for the cacao bean. And he felt different, to say the least…strange, dangerous thoughts began to whirl in his mind, thoughts that were almost alien to him, yet at the same time strangely familiar _...this isn't the way it's supposed to be._


	2. Prologue, Part 2

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

* * *

 _Lunar Base_

In another time, in another place, a very different Oompa-Loompa looked up at a far more benevolent overlord. This Oompa-Loompa was a clone, created from one of the lucky few that had survived the loss of the first Chocolate Factory, and the man standing beside him seemed to be a clone as well. Willy Wonka could not still be alive after all of these years and, even if he was, he was far too old to be _this_ man. Up close, however, the subtle differences could be seen, the result of the splices where the senior Wonka's DNA had been artificially combined with that of Charlie Bucket. This man, like his smaller associate, had been created in a laboratory; he was a genetic hybrid of the two most important figures in the history of the Wonka Company, gene-crafted and psycho-imprinted to be the perfect leader. Both Willy Wonka and Charlie Bucket had been dead for years, long before the Company had moved its primary offices off of Earth. In their honored place stood their mutual successor: Charlie Wonka.

The Oompa-Loompa stared at the datapad in front of him, politely baffled. "Are these numbers correct, my Fuhrer?"

Charlie Wonka craned down to look at the pad, his top hat leaning forward precariously. "I'm all but certain. I checked them three times myself."

"Sir, you do realize what you have in your hands…this will mark a revolution, not just of _our_ technology, but the technology of…"

"Which is why I want this kept in the strictest confidence. _All_ testing will be kept under the table until we have proven my idea one way or the other. I want funding taken from one of our slush funds, under the guise of a personal project…which is really what this is, anyway. If I release this to the regular laboratories, it would be far too easy for someone to mention it over lunch…even with loyalty conditioning…and then the cat's out of the pie, so to speak."

"Out of the _bag_ , my Fuhrer?"

Wonka paused. "What?"

"Uh…the expression is usually 'the cat is out of the bag,' not the pie."

"Oh, thank you! I never thought that 'easy as bag' made much sense either! But, moving along, I insist on this being kept secret. I don't imagine that we have spies within the factory, but you know well how rumors spread. And all I would need is for this conversation to be overheard by someone _outside_ the company…I don't even know that we would be in any danger, but I can't take that chance. Assuming we're successful, we will hold a piece of technological leverage which, if I may say so myself, will be nothing short of remarkable. And if we're unsuccessful, I don't want to be publicly ridiculed when my little brainstorm comes to nothing."

"I understand completely. If I may make a suggestion, my Fuhrer, the old science wing would be an excellent place to set up a laboratory for simulations and whatnot; it is awaiting remodeling, but could easily be restored to functionality."

"An excellent idea, Commander. I was thinking the same thing. But I still need a chief scientist…someone with the necessary qualifications, and whom I can trust to be discreet."

"I think I have just the man, my Fuhrer. I'm certain you know him, if nothing else by reputation…he's one of our best, and old enough so that he doesn't feel the need to boast about his work. With your permission, I'll see that I find my way down to his lab."

"Certainly, OS-22. Just tell him that I wish to see him…and that it's important."


	3. Prologue, Part 3

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

* * *

 _Imperial Residence, Southern England_

For the next three weeks, he could not shake the single, wild idea that had popped into his head in what had been an otherwise unremarkable day. Notions, crazy notions, danced in his brain…revolution, freedom, equality with the humans who so often looked down on him and Oompa-Loompas like him. But these were simply dreams, ideals, fantasies…far closer to home was the building rage that he felt against the Empress. He was no longer sad or disheartened, no longer embarrassed and degraded by his servitude. On the contrary, every time he was in the room with her, he felt nothing but cold hatred, interspersed with the occasional hot burst of rage. He wanted to do something, something that he would never have dreamed of before…but he had made up his mind. _I am going to kill Veruca Salt_. He delighted in the feeling, never letting it show…in fact, he was positively obsequious, cheerfully pandering to the Empress's every whim. Every humiliation drove a fresh, hot spike of rage into the base of his brain, reinforcing his will to do what none of his degraded fellows had ever dared to consider. They wondered what was wrong with him, the way he strutted about in their company, but the truth was that he felt himself their superior. _If it were left to you lot, we'd spend the rest of our lives rotting in chains._ He did not know what would happen once the Empress was dead…odds were that a new leader would just take her place, but it would still be worth it. Even if they killed him, which he was almost certain they would, he would go to the gallows or before the firing squad willingly…because he had the courage to stand up for his rights. And, in his daydreams, he imagined that his martyrdom would inspire Oompa-Loompas across the world to rise up and throw off the yoke of oppression. But even if everything else failed, and he left the state of his kin no better than before, he would still have the pleasure of killing the horrible woman whom he hated with all his heart.

He waited and watched, studying…though he had been around her for much of his adult life, he had never truly given much thought to the Empress's daily actions until now. Her schedule was simply the measure of how much abuse he could expect and at what times. But now he considered carefully…when she ate, when she slept, when she was guarded, when she was alone. He needed several factors to line up: he needed the Empress to be by herself, but he also needed to catch her unaware to make his assassination attempt. At night, while she slept, he was locked in the slave quarters with the rest of the Oompa-Loompas. He had to find some daytime opportunity where she was both unguarded and personally vulnerable; if he allowed an ambush to turn into a contest of personal strength, Veruca Salt still had a significant advantage in height, if not strength. Besides, she would instantly scream for help if a slave tried to overpower her. No…he had to eliminate her quickly and quietly, strike before she knew he was coming, and wound her mortally before she had a chance to summon any of the countless guards which patrolled the estate. He began to despair as a week passed and then another, with no opportunity to even get near his nemesis...he tried hard to keep himself calm, and to remember that his personal war effort might take months or even years to reach fruition. He wished like nothing else that he had someone to talk to, to share in the danger and the secret, but he did not dare trust any of the other slaves. While he doubted they would sell him out for personal gain, it would not do to have any of the others acting at all strangely…the moment there was the faintest hint of trouble afoot, the entire group of Oompa-Loompas would be shipped off to a labor camp and others brought in to take their places. He could trust no one.

But then he got his chance. It was a warm spring evening, and his labor schedule dictated that he was to serve as the Empress's personal attendant for the night. Only he found himself unnecessary. The guards had been exchanging lewd comments all day, and he knew why: the Empress, as was her increasingly frequent custom, had half a dozen young men and women delivered into her private chambers…all at the same time. They were drug addicts, runaways, society's rejects…the Empress did not care so long as they were physically attractive, and as long as they would not be missed. What exactly she did with her playthings, or where they went when she was finished with them, was something the Oompa-Loompa did not care to consider…all that mattered was that he had his opportunity. He already knew that Her Majesty would not send for him this evening…thankfully…but, rather than return to the slave quarters, he waited for hours in the corridor outside the Empress's personal chamber. The guards paid him no mind, though one of them laughed and suggested in a loud voice that the dutiful servant must have been some kind of pervert to be listening outside the Empress's door. The Oompa-Loompa gave the guard's retreating back a friendly hand gesture, and he continued to wait. He had stolen a key the day before, swiping it cleanly off the steward of the estate when the horrible man came in to check the slave quarters…now the key rested inside his overalls, just waiting to be used.

Eventually, the debauchery was over. A bell was rung, signaling that the Empress had had her fun; a group of guards approached, and he ducked into concealment as they entered the chamber. They reemerged escorting seven adolescents, all of whom had clearly been shoved back into their clothing a few moments beforehand…all of them were heavily intoxicated with heaven-only-knew-what, giggling madly and trying to joke with the troopers as they were half-dragged, half-carried away down the corridor. The Steward was the last one out the door, a lecherous grin on his face; he pulled the door to the Empress's chamber closed, and the lock automatically engaged with a click. Now…now was the moment…now was the moment of vengeance. _For every Oompa-Loompa in chains around the globe! For every human being likewise living in oppression, fear, and degradation! This was the day the world would change!_

He moved swiftly to the Empress's door, the key in his hand before he even realized that he had reached for it…he inserted it gently into the lock, gave a slow turn, and eased the door open. He crossed the first empty apartment and gently turned the knob of the next door…he pressed inward with the gentlest touch, easing the door silently open until he could just see… _Oh, yes. She was quite alone, and quite vulnerable._ Empress Veruca Salt was stretched on an ivory-colored divan in the center of the room, wearing nothing but a silk robe which was in danger of slipping off one shoulder…she lay back, idly stroking a hand up and down her own silk-clad body as her head lolled drunkenly against the cushions. The Oompa-Loompa did not know what she had taken, but it had clearly been a large dose. He eased into the apartment and gently closed the door behind him, making only the faintest click as it closed. He turned the lock and pushed an enormous sofa just far enough over to block the door…in the Empress's current state, it would be enough of a barricade. _She would not get out of here alive_. He turned and started to cross to the second door, when the Empress suddenly sat up on the divan. "Wh-what are you doing here?" she asked, her words slurring slightly as she tugged her robe tighter around her shoulders.

He stopped and sank into a gentle bow. "I just thought I would stop in and see if Your Majesty needed anything before I retire."

"How sweet," Veruca said with a laugh, falling back against the cushions. She plucked a jewel-encrusted hand mirror from a small table beside the divan and looked into it for a moment, sitting up straighter as she did. Her hand rose to the left side of her face, the nails tightening until they pulled at her skin…she lowered the mirror suddenly and looked at the Oompa-Loompa, who was moving steadily toward the room's opposite door. Her tone was suddenly gentle and vulnerable, her face set in an expression that would have been tragic on the features of any other woman. "Tell me, slave…am I still beautiful?" She almost sniffled on the last word, and he struggled not to laugh.

"Of course, Your Highness. _Very_ beautiful…as you always have been."

The look on the Empress's face remained for a split-second more, and then she suddenly threw herself back on the divan in a mad fit of giggling. The Oompa-Loompa smiled and then joined in the laughter as well, though his was for a far different reason. _She has no idea what's coming…_ "Bloody hell!" He said the last two words aloud as the mirror suddenly flew across the room and exploded against the wall above his head; the shot had obviously been intended for him, but the Empress's aim was somewhat compromised.

"Shame on you laughing at me!" she said, the pouting expression on her face and the tone of her voice so infantile that he almost started laughing again purely on reflex…she sat back on the divan again, and her usual tone of arrogant command returned. "Slave, I want something to drink."

"With pleasure, my lady," he said, crossing to the small wet bar built into the far wall of the room…as he passed the opposite door, he slid the Steward's key into the lock and broke it off with a faint snap of metal.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Your Highness." He reached the bar and selected a bottle of the finest French cognac; popping the top off, he took a gulp himself before deliberately climbing up onto the bar's shelves and then dropping the bottle on the hard counter. It shattered, and Veruca swore in surprise, saying a word that even the Oompa-Loompa was astonished that she knew.

She turned to glare at him. "What _are_ you doing back there, worm?!"

"An accident, my lady. I dropped a bottle…" she started to rise, but he stopped her. "Please don't trouble yourself, Your Majesty…not on account of a clumsy fool like me. I'll clean this mess up, and I will tell the Steward exactly what happened so that he can have me flogged properly."

"Good," Veruca said, even the drugs unable to disguise that malicious edge in her voice. "See that you do that. And tell the Whip Bearer that you are to receive ten extra lashes…on my decree."

"Very good, milady." He had poured a fresh glass of liquor and set it on the counter of the bar…now he reached down to the shattered bottle, and his fingers closed around a long, thick shard of glass, strong enough to be used as a dagger without breaking. In his anticipation, his hand squeezed the glass so tightly that it cut him, but he did not even feel the pain as blood dripped out from between his fingers. He slowly approached the back of the divan, listening to the Empress humming discordantly to herself… _For my people, and for yours!_ He slid the shard of glass behind his back and stepped around the corner of the divan, proudly presenting the glass of alcohol with his free hand. "For you… _Your Majesty_."

She took the glass with what was intended to be an alluring smile…but then her leg lashed out and caught him in the side of the head…hard. "That's for my bottle," she said, slumping against the back of the divan. "I want you to leave now."

"Very good, Your Highness." He got unsteadily to his feet as Veruca's eyes started to close, the glass tipping dangerously in her hand…only he did not leave. On the contrary, he jumped up swiftly onto the end table, now standing over the Empress. Her eyes opened, and she looked up, staring at him upside down.

"What…" but she never had a chance to say more. The deadly piece of glass materialized in his right hand, and the Empress's words ended in a scream as the razor shard stabbed into her neck. He swung his arm with a rough overhand motion that suggested he was using a hammer rather than an improvised knife…his blood mingling with that of his enemy as his hand clenched tighter and tighter, slicing open his own flesh. He jammed his weapon into the Empress's throat again and again and again, her screams giving way to a strangled gargling as she choked on her own blood. She swung her arms and kicked wildly, making a vain effort to defend herself. Crimson liquid poured out over the ivory cushions of the divan, spraying out onto the carpeting…the Empress coughed involuntarily and spewed blood into his face, adding to the gore which already covered his green hair, brown shirt, and white overalls. The carotid artery burst to unleash a fresh torrent of blood, and the Empress's frantic but unguided thrashing came to an abrupt halt as she slumped on the divan, her eyes staring into nothingness. Veruca Salt was dead. The Oompa-Loompa stabbed several more times just for good measure and then threw his piece of glass aside, laughing maniacally as he stood there covered in blood. He heard the guards outside but made no attempt to hide…and he was still laughing when the soldiers kicked the door down and saw him standing unapologetically over the body of his victim. The last thing he saw was the stock of a rifle swinging toward his head, and then everything went black.


	4. Prologue, Part 4

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

* * *

 _Lunar Base_

The door opened. "Allow me to introduce Research Physicist 18, my Fuhrer." 18 entered Charlie Wonka's office, glancing around the large room with a stoic appreciation…beyond the curving windows, the blue orb of Earth hung low above the cold gray of the lunar horizon. The Company's move here had not been made lightly, but it had been necessary after the madness of the corporate wars. After Wonka's rival Chadworth elected to go nuclear – quite literally – even the United Nations was forced to recognize the dangers of unregulated chocolatiers. JR Chadworth spent the rest of his life in a padded room, and Willy Wonka began searching for a place to build his next chocolate factory…a place beyond the reach of his industry rivals. The place he had found was beyond the reach of even most governments.

18 stopped in front of the desk and saluted, his face set in an expression of solemn pride. "Hail, my Fuhrer! The Supreme Commander informed me that you had need of my services. Whatever I can do will most certainly be my pleasure."

Wonka acknowledged the newcomer with a respectful nod of his head; while RP-18 had always avoided the limelight, it was no secret that he was among the best physicists the company had ever produced. Unlike most of his alphanumeric brethren, 18 had been in service since before the Lunar Base was even constructed…his career had begun on Earth, helping Willy Wonka design the spacecraft that had first moved Wonka operations beyond Earth's atmosphere. 18's face was lined and worn, his black hair largely lightened to gray, but there was a spark of creativity in his eyes that was still alive and well. _OS-22 had certainly picked the right Loompa._

"Well…" Wonka said, not entirely sure how to introduce what he had in mind, "…let me begin by showing you something. I have some blueprints here, which I think might interest you."

18 took the schematics, drawn on several sheets of ordinary paper taped together to create a larger surface. His eyes calmly roved across the drawing, his skepticism at being handed something drawn on office paper evident, and then he paused as he reached the equations written in the lower right-hand corner. His eyes widened visibly, and he stared at the drawing with renewed intensity. Wonka grinned, and glanced over at OS-22, who was also smiling at the scientist's reaction. RP-18 looked up at Wonka. "Where did you get this, my Fuhrer?"

"I drew it up myself, a couple of nights ago," Wonka replied calmly, unable to disguise the look of amusement on his features. "You see, I was having this nightmare about talking marshmallows who were trying to kill me, and I suddenly woke up and decided that I wanted some hot chocolate…with marshmallows in it. So I was standing there, laughing maniacally at the triumph of karma over evil marshmallows…they tried to kill me, but now they were going to endure untold agony as they were dissolved by my stomach acid…and I started turning over a few ideas from our theoretical warp drive in my mind. And that's when I was struck by…well, _that_. You like?"

18 looked again at the drawing with something like reverence. "Is it _possible_?"

"You tell me."

18 stared intently for perhaps a minute. "I…" his face split into a broad smile. "Truly, I can't see any problem with it…not that I'm comparing your intelligence with my own, my Fuhrer."

Wonka raised a hand. "None of that, 18. I asked for your opinion, and I want it honest."

"Well, sir, all I can say is that this is the most incredible thing I've ever laid eyes on. I hope you intend to follow up on it."

"Indeed I do, but I want to keep it quiet…just in case things don't go as well as I hope. So, would you like to head the project?"

18 simply stood, his mouth roughly halfway open. "It would…it would be my honor, my Fuhrer. But, surely, there must be someone more qualified than myself…"

"Is that a refusal?"

"No…no, sir!"

"Well then. Phase one will just be theoretical testing, of course, computer simulations and the like. I'm going to have you working in the old science wing to keep this out of the main lab computers. Not to worry…I'm certainly not going to make you use the equipment in there! On the contrary, you're free to requisition whatever and whoever you need. Take OS-22 with you…if you don't mind that is, Commander…he'll get you started. This project is my personal pet, naturally, so you will be operating under my authority and report directly to me. Sound good?"

"It will be my honor, my Fuhrer. In fact, I already know who I want for my research team. We will begin immediately."


	5. Prologue, Part 5

_Unidentified Facility_

Where he was, he did not know. It was a dark, cold space…there was a single light bulb hanging in what he supposed most have been the center, though it could just as easily have been the back, the corner, or the side…that single bulb cast a circle of illumination on a cement floor, but beyond that there was no way to tell anything about the rest of the room. The walls were beyond the circle of light…they were more than ten feet away, which he had determined from his limited exploration, but beyond that he did not know…they might have been six inches beyond where he had ventured, or a thousand miles. It did not matter. He had been lying on the cold cement when he returned to consciousness, but he did not stay there for long. He jumped about, despite the agonizing pain in his head; skipping and jumping and singing rude songs at the top of his lungs. He ran in and out of the darkness, frightening himself into believing there was a monster after him…not that the illusion lasted for long. But he would not sit down, or lie down, or do anything else that might have suggested an instant's fear or apprehension of what was to come. He was going to die…that much was all but guaranteed…he might even be tortured. But he had still won. _He had killed the Empress, and there was nothing they could do to take_ that _victory from him_.

The light burned twenty-four hours, and no one brought food or water…his endless clowning desisted once he grew thirsty, but he still did not sit. Instead, he walked calmly around and around his small pool of light, pausing only to stop and remove the clown-like shoes that he was wearing. He was, after all, still in his servant garb. After an interminable length of time, he grew tired and slept…quite soundly, despite the concrete he had for a bed. Time rolled on; he might have been in the cell for a few hours or a few days…he did not know. But then, suddenly, the door opened. It was not far away, not much further than he had ventured from the comfort of his single light bulb…but suddenly it was there, a rectangle of blinding illumination. He raised a hand to shield his eyes as they entered: four troopers with rifles, accompanied by an officer and another figure in the rear.

The Oompa-Loompa grinned. "So, am I going to swing on a rope, sizzle like a sausage, be made into Swiss cheese, or none of the above?"

The officer's stony expression did not change in the slightest. "You are charged with the attempted assassination of the Empress of Nova Britannia, Her Most Regal Highness, Veruca Salt. This crime carries the penalty of death. Do you have anything to say before sentence is carried out?"

"Yes, actually I do." _Was this some kind of mind game?_ "Maybe you could repeat yourself a little louder…did I hear you say 'attempted assassination?' Because that was a pretty damned good attempt, if I do say so myself. Usually, when someone stops breathing and their eyes fix and dilate, it means they're dead."

"Yes," said the figure behind the officer. "It usually does…but not always." The other stepped forward into the circle of illumination cast by the ceiling light, and the bottom dropped out of the Oompa-Loompa's stomach. _It wasn't possible_ …the other pulled back the hood of a heavy cloak to reveal the face of a woman, young and very beautiful: pale skin, long black hair, and icy blue eyes.

"You're dead," the Oompa-Loompa said, his mind racing. _What in hell was this? It couldn't…_ couldn't _…be her…this was a double, a pretender of some kind. For one thing, this woman was far too young; it wasn't possible…wasn't…_ "YOU'RE DEAD!" he repeated, his scream at once furious and terrified…he was backing away, not even aware of it…the face might have been duplicated through plastic surgery, but there was no mistaking those cold, cold eyes. He stopped, suddenly afraid to back away into the darkness. The young woman who could not be Veruca Salt advanced on him, kneeling down directly in front of him, clearly unafraid with five armed soldiers behind her. The Oompa-Loompa's voice was almost desperate. "It can't be…Veruca Salt is dead."

"Yes, she is," the woman said, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "She's dead and her body is being cremated even as we speak. But her mind…that's something else altogether. Her memories… constantly downloaded by that tiny little computer chip implanted in her skull, actively recorded onto the fresh template of my cerebrum. I'm a clone, you see. Veruca Salt restored to life in a new body…twenty years old again and free of all the inconveniences which one inevitably acquires. And I'm not just a duplicate in the flesh. Veruca's mind may have died with her body, but I have her identity, her personality…her _memories_. I remember what you did to me…even if it wasn't done to this body. Because even though _I_ wasn't murdered, I still felt… _everything_. Can you imagine what that's like, what it feels like to die? Oh, that's right…you'll find out for yourself soon. Only you won't be able to come back and tell me about it…whether it was horrible, or whether you found the experience as… _exquisite_ …as I did." She gave a shudder of something obscenely like pleasure. "I've never felt anything quite like it. And I'll never have to fear it…because, even now, another body is already receiving _my_ memory downloads. Immortality…within reach of anyone with enough money and the right connections. But of course that's a little beyond the reach of a slave. Which may actually be your blessing; otherwise, I could enjoy killing you again, and again, and again…"

The soldiers seized him roughly, lifting him bodily off the floor as they dragged him toward that shining rectangle of light. And as he was pulled from the room, his last words were a scream of horror and disbelief: " _You're lying! It's not true! It's not possible! You're dead! I KILLED YOU!"_


	6. The Jump, Part 1

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

* * *

 _Lunar Base, Hangar_

Starship Captain 80 strode into the massive cavity of the hangar bay, his chest out and his head high. He was disappointed, truth be told…the entire base should have been here to see the launching. _Part of it was vanity, of course,_ he thought with a wry grin, but it was more than just his own desire for glory. Today, the Fuhrer's genius was to be reaffirmed…and not through some mere revolution of the candy industry either. Of course candy was valuable…it was the entire reason that the company and the Lunar Base and indeed 80 himself existed…but today's test would move the technology of the entire human race forward. _That_ deserved acknowledgment, even if 80 and his crew did not. _Ah well,_ 80 thought, _once we pull this off, both my crew and the Fuhrer will get a parade._

Behind the Captain came the other five members of his crew: Interstellar Pilots 77 and 101; the Doctor, Research Physicist 18, who had insisted that he be aboard the test vessel himself to deal with any situation that might arise; and 18's two assistants, Research Associates 46 and 48. All of them were tense this morning, though they showed it in different ways. 77 and 101 were quiet and stoic, a product of their training; 46 and 48 were civilians, and so were far more openly nervous. The Doctor appeared completely calm, though he performed frequent and obsessive checks of his uniform and personal equipment. As for the Captain himself, he did not know exactly how he dealt with stress; he was certain that he probably had a personal tic or ritual of some kind, but he did not know what it was offhand. If he was honest with himself, he did feel some apprehension…but it did not stop him. Any fear of what might go wrong was outweighed a thousand times over by the pride he felt at being chosen for this mission. It was not every day that one was selected to captain a prototype vessel, especially one whose primary purpose was to test a device designed by the Fuhrer himself. 80 had been briefed on the theoretical specifications of the device in question, and what he had seen stunned him. _From the Lunar Base to Alpha Centauri in two minutes…to the other side of the Galaxy in five weeks._ It would be the fastest warp drive ever built, and not just by the Wonka Company either. Unless the world's governments had some piece of technology which they were holding in secret, the new drive would obliterate the prior, stumbling efforts of those NASA and ESA amateurs.

80 became aware that he was leaving his companions behind, walking rather more quickly than usual from a combination of nerves and enthusiasm…he and his men had also been briefed on what could potentially happen to them if the Drive malfunctioned, and it had not been pretty. _But none of that's going to happen,_ he said to himself as he slowed down and allowed the other members of his team to catch up. _The ship has been built to the most exact standards possible, under the Fuhrer's direct supervision._ He relaxed and allowed himself a smile. _There won't be any disasters today, only triumph_. He turned to his crew, all of them completely silent as each of them contemplated what they were about to do. The Captain turned so that he was walking backward, and his smile broadened into a grin. "Come on now, gentlemen…what's the worst that could possibly happen?" There were a few smiles, both of the Research Associates looking more ill than amused. The small group of Oompa-Loompas reached the far corner of the hangar, rounded a row of docked transport ships…and then there she was.

Deepstar Five was not a large ship; her mass was slightly greater than that of an _Aurora_ patrol destroyer, though she was rather longer and thinner. She most resembled a monstrous dragonfly, though wingless and a uniform gray in color. Her small bridge was located at the top of the rounded "head" at the front, which also contained the vessel's sensors and small living quarters; her central "thorax" held most of her mechanical systems, a tiny galley, and her cargo hold. The massive cylindrical shape of the new warp engine formed the extended "tail" at the rear; it was far more massive than a standard drive, but it was also far more powerful. If 80 was honest with himself, Deepstar Five was quite ugly, something that he had to admit even as her captain. Her two regular drive engines were mounted side-by-side in a pod atop her central module, adding to her ungainly appearance, and a small forest of sensor vanes jutted from her blunt nose. But like most experimental vessels, she was designed with functionality rather than looks in mind; she did not need to be pretty, simply to get the job done.

A large number of technicians were swarming around and over the ship, completing final preflight checks; as 80 and his team approached, the ground crew finished their tasks and stood off to one side to watch the ship launch. "She's all yours," the crew chief said, nodding respectfully to 80…the Captain returned the gesture, and stood off to one side of the ramp as the five other members of his crew boarded. He followed the two technicians, the last man aboard; at the top, he pressed the CLOSE button, and the ramp hissed shut behind him. Passing forward through the cargo hold, he made his way up a ladder to the flight deck, taking his seat in the center of the tiny, asymmetrical bridge. The two pilots were seated ahead of him, side by side at the main controls. The Doctor was seated slightly ahead of him on the Captain's right, facing forward at the main monitoring station for the warp drive. Research Associates 46 and 48 were seated on the Captain's left, facing the side wall of the bridge; their job was essentially technical support, correcting any problems that the Doctor identified. All six Oompa-Loompas were wearing full vacuum suits for this mission; while the protective gear would hardly help them if anything went wrong during the jump, it was still prudent to eliminate one more potential source of danger. Every eventuality had to be considered on a test flight.

"Bringing her up," IP-101 said. He and 77 were both flipping switches left and right as they woke Deepstar Five from her mechanical slumber. The vessel had only been out of dock twice before for her basic sublight navigation tests…this was to be her first real voyage.

"Standby for main engine start in three…two…one…mark," 77 announced calmly, and instantly a tremor shot through Deepstar Five's hull as her main ion drives began firing, the high-pitched whine of the motors audible from within the bridge.

"Warp engine has power," RA-46 reported. "Beginning pre-Jump diagnostics."

SC-80 turned to IP-101. "Open channel."

"Done, sir."

"Launch Control, this is Deepstar Five. We are go for launch. Awaiting authorization."

"Deepstar Five, you are clear to proceed. Inner docking bay doors open. Deactivating external shield now."

"Deepstar Five copies." Both of the pilots were looking back at the Captain; 80 looked from one of them to the other, and then nodded slowly. "Let's do it."

"Lifters, aye." Deepstar Five shivered slightly and then began to lift smoothly off the hangar floor, the technicians gathered below giving a mixture of waves and salutes as the ship turned and began hovering across the hangar toward the yawning mouth of the main airlock.

"In position for ascent, sir," 101 said, and Deepstar Five lifted toward the huge metal iris of the outer launch doors. The lower portal ground shut and sound died away as the air drained from the chamber; the outer doors opened, and Deepstar Five rose onto the lunar surface. A few Oompa-Loompas in spacesuits were working here and there, surface teams performing regular maintenance checks on the base's exterior; they turned to watch as this new and strange spacecraft turned and glided off smoothly into the void. A pair of patrolling _Auroras_ dipped their wings and flashed their landing lights in acknowledgment, though they did not follow. There was little to fear in lunar orbit these days…more importantly, specific instructions had been given that Deepstar Five was _not_ to be escorted. If she accidentally pulled one of the destroyers along in her wake, there would be no telling where along the journey the unfortunate ship might be spat out.

 _Earth to Alpha Centauri in two minutes. Is it even possible? Even the Fuhrer is not completely sure._ SC-80 shook his head. _I guess we're about to find out_. He brought up the view from the aft camera in one corner of the transparent canopy/viewscreen which made up the front of the bridge, watching as the Moon and the Earth slowly drifted away into the blackness of space. It truly was a beautiful sight…while a veteran of dozens of missions aboard different ships, first as a pilot and now as a commander, SC-80 had never lost the wonder that he felt at the majesties of the universe. He continued to watch the rearward view as Deepstar Five cruised slowly along through the void for the next thirty minutes, placing a reasonable margin of space between herself and the Base before she jumped. What exactly would happen if the Drive overloaded was not clear, but it would not do to have it happening in close proximity to the company headquarters. The crew was quiet, the six Oompa-Loompas all lost in their own thoughts as they enjoyed these last few moments before the Jump. If everything went according to plan, they would be arriving at the Centauri coordinates after just over two minutes' travel time…a distance that light itself took four years to cover. And if something went wrong, well…there was no telling. But one could not dwell on that. Finally, a soft alert tone chimed, and IP-101 glanced back at the Captain. "We're clear of the Moon's gravitational field, sir. In position to Jump on your command."

80 nodded; now that the moment was actually here, his system was suddenly flooded by hard, cold adrenaline. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath; when he let it out, he was all business. He turned to the two technicians on his left. "Gentlemen?"

RA-46 answered. "Everything looks good, Captain. All systems normal. Drive capacitors are charged and ready; power levels nominal."

80 glanced over at RP-18. "Doctor?"

"All green on my board, Captain. I noticed a small irregularity in the Drive's waveform signature a few minutes ago, but I managed to balance it out."

"Anything I should be worried about?"

"No. It's hardly surprising that we have some small degree of calibration error. We were well within safe parameters before; now we should be completely stable. Even if my adjustments aren't entirely correct, our exit won't be off by more than a thousand kilometers at the absolute most. Just don't put us right next to a black hole or anything."

80 grinned. "I wasn't planning on it, Doctor. 77, 101, everything normal?"

"Yes, Captain. Ready to rock."

 _Ready to rock?_ 80 sat back in his chair. "Very well. Get me base one more time."

The voice of OS-22 came back through the bridge speakers. "Yes, Captain?"

"We're in position to begin our run, sir."

"Excellent. We'll be waiting for you on the other side. Good luck, Captain."

"Thank you, sir." 80's eyes swept the bridge, taking in the expectant and nervous faces of his five crewmen. _We're about to make the two most important minutes in this millennium of history._ 80 smiled, the expression somewhat grim. "Well, for better or worse, gentlemen. Power up the Drive."

"Copy. Core is at forty percent…sixty…seventy-five…core charge complete. Local gravitational distortion detected…increasing steadily. All systems go. Just say the word, sir."

"Engage."

"Aye, sir. Commencing jump in five…four…three…two…one…" A circular pattern of lightning rippled in the empty void ahead, long tendrils of energy reaching around the ship…a glowing nexus of light steadily brightened at the heart of the lightning, growing as it intensified…the sphere of light stretched into a tunnel, a corridor of shimmering brilliance with nothing but the deepest blackness at its heart…the tunnel reached out and swallowed Deepstar Five whole, and then nothing was visible save for the blue-white walls of that endless tunnel, wavering like water. 80 had been holding his breath, and now blew it out in a tremendous sigh of relief. _We managed to Jump successfully, at least._ A timer appeared at the top of the viewscreen counting down…exactly one hundred and twenty-three seconds until Deepstar Five reached her destination. Spectacular bursts of color rippled in the walls of the subspace tunnel, brilliant and unnatural hues which were shocking to the eye; the entire crew was now watching in awe and apprehension as the dancing lights intensified rapidly. Ninety seconds. The warp corridor was now a shocking kaleidoscope display, whirling ever faster as it grew brighter and brighter. Sixty seconds. The viewscreen automatically polarized itself, but still the brilliant multicolored light blazed through, at once beautiful and terrifying. Thirty seconds. The swirling light was now moving so fast that individual colors were impossible to distinguish, the warp tunnel now resembling the inside of some stellar tornado. Colossal discharges of electricity flared along the walls, bolts of lightning a million kilometers long.

"Doctor?" 80's tone was grave…if so much as a single one of those discharges struck the ship…

"Nothing to worry about, Captain. Alarming, I know."

Fifteen seconds. Ten. "Stand by for Drive shutdown," 77 said. Five seconds…four…three…two…one…A brilliant jet of light suddenly burst from between the stars, Deepstar Five at its head; the warp tunnel collapsed in a swirling vortex and disappeared, and suddenly the ship was again cruising along through the normal blackness of space.

SC-80's face split into a broad grin. "Well, gentlemen, if nothing else…" His voice trailed off. The multiple suns of the Centauri system should have been blazing through the forward viewport, but there was nothing but the ordinary field of stars. There was no planet…or anything else to be seen. "Uh, I'm not missing something am I? I'm not seeing Alpha Centauri."

IP-101 spoke slowly. "No, sir. Performing visual check now." A smaller window in the corner of the main viewscreen was panning from one camera to the next, giving a smooth, continuous view all the way around the ship. On the aft camera, a distant orb came into view…clearly a planet.

"Did we overshoot?" the Doctor asked, his tone somewhat pleased rather than alarmed. "If _that's_ Proxima B, then the Drive system is even faster than we thought. I'm sure I punched in the right heading, but…" His sentence trailed off as well.

"Even if that's our target," IP-77 said, "we should be looking at two stars in close proximity. Viewfinder only shows one, beyond the planet."

"Wait a minute," SC-80 said. He suddenly felt both alarmed…and incredibly stupid. "Run a position check and magnify that planet on the forward viewscreen." The image snapped into tighter focus, and there was silence on the bridge as the entire crew realized the obvious.

"That's…" RA-48 started to say.

"Earth." The Captain finished.

"Position check confirms," IP-101 said, both disappointment and confusion evident in his tone. "The computer has only changed our coordinates by a single thousandth. Our total movement wasn't more than a couple million kilometers."

SC-80 sat back in his seat, baffled; meanwhile, RP-18 was wildly punching keys at his terminal. The Doctor muttered quietly to himself. "It doesn't make any sense. We were in _some_ state of warp for over two minutes…something must have malfunctioned. 46, 48, any readings from your board?"

"No, Doctor. According to diagnostics, everything's fine."

RP-18 shook his head and glanced over at the Captain. "I don't know what to say. I can't figure it."

"Should we attempt another Jump?"

"No. Seeing as the computer can't even determine where the problem is, I would recommend we power down the Drive and return to base. The Drive functions, in some sense, but we clearly have a problem. I'm just sorry the day ended like this."

"So am I. And don't worry, Doctor…I'm sure we'll be back out here soon. 101, get me a channel to the Lunar Base."

"Roger that…sir, I'm not getting any response."

"Interference?"

"I'm not sure. Possibly."

"Keep trying. 77, get us turned toward home."

"Aye, sir."

Deepstar Five quickly accelerated to full speed, Earth expanding steadily on the forward viewscreen as the ship headed back toward the Lunar Base. It was again quiet, though not from apprehension; the only voice was that of 101 as he fruitlessly continued to hail the facility.

"Captain, I can't get anything from Central."

"Have you run an equipment check?"

"Yes, sir. Diagnostics read clear, so I redirected the antenna toward Earth just to verify. I'm picking up background signals just fine; I just can't get anything from the Base."

 _Now what?_ SC-80 sat forward slightly in his chair. "Ping one of our navigational beacons. Let them know we're here."

"Yes, sir." 101 visibly paused. "Sir, there's no response from Traffic Control. I'm not reading a return ping from the beacon, either."

The Moon was dead ahead, Deepstar Five closing rapidly. A brief chill ran up the Captain's spine, though he kept his face impassive. _What in hell was going on here?_ "Run a scan, please, 101. I sincerely hope we aren't trying to return to base in the middle of an enemy attack or something, but fate sometimes has a way about it. 77, take over on communications. Patch me through to one of the Earth facilities." The three civilian personnel were no longer concentrating on their own stations…both of the Research Assistants had turned their seats, watching the forward view with obvious apprehension…RP-18 had paused mid-calculation, his face arranged in an odd expression as he too watched the forward viewscreen.

77's voice came back first. "Captain, I have nothing on communications channels. Negative response from all facilities."

80 stood, his hands clasping themselves tightly behind his back. "Try again."

"Sir…"

"Just do it! 101?"

"Captain, I…" The fear was audible in the other Loompa's voice, and 80 felt dread settle in his stomach. "Captain, I have nothing on sensors."

"Define nothing."

"The computer confirms the location of the Lunar Base, but…it cannot confirm the _existence_ of the Lunar Base, sir."

80 pressed a hand to his forehead. _Was this a dream?_ "Move in and get me visual. I want to _see_ the base, or at least where it should be."

"Understood." Deepstar Five fired her engines and settled into a rapid orbit of the Moon, her nose pointed directly toward the surface. No lights came into view…no faint outline of the protective shield. Deepstar Five halted and held a geosynchronous position, the ship's thrusters matching the exact speed of the Moon's rotation.

101 spoke, his voice quiet. "Sir, we are holding position over the exact center of the Lunar Base. The facility should be visible directly in front of the vehicle." The only thing visible, however, was the pockmarked gray surface of the Moon. The Captain's mind was whirling. _It didn't make any sense…_

"Oh, God!" RA-46 blurted the words, utter and complete terror audible. "This can't be happening! This can't be happening! They're DEAD! They're all…"

"STOW THAT!" The bellowed order came, not from the Captain, but from the Doctor. "Just calm down. I don't know what's going on…but I'm fairly certain that no one's died."

"But…"

"Trust me." RP-18 looked around at the rest of the bridge. "Let's think about this thing rationally. Captain?"

80 still could not accept what he was seeing. "There should be something…anything. Even if the Lunar Base was completely wiped out by a nuclear weapon, there would be a blast pattern…a crater…something. There's nothing at all, and the damned weird part is the fact that the surface looks like it's _never_ been disturbed. If nothing else, we should be seeing material excavated during construction. 77, you said you couldn't raise any of the other facilities over the comm, yes?"

"Nothing at all, sir."

Against all logic and reason, the Doctor was nodding. "Captain, I…well…"

"Damn it, if you know what's going on here, then spit it out!"

"I will do just that, Captain. But first I must ask you to do something for me. I assume our computer has the exact coordinates for our monitoring station at the Moon's northern pole?"

"Yes."

"Please position the ship over this point, descend to two hundred meters, and turn us so that we are pointing directly at Earth."

80's eyes narrowed. "You have a theory?"

"Yes. But I'm either right or crazy, and I'd like to know which before I say too much."

"Very well. 77, reposition us according to the Doctor's instructions."

"Aye, sir."

Thrusters fired again and, within ten minutes, the ship was in position at the new coordinates…the monitoring station, however, was not there. The crew sat silently while RP-18 punched buttons at his console, occasionally murmuring to himself as he worked. After several minutes, he sighed and turned to address the rest of the bridge. "I'm sure that all of the naval personnel present are familiar with basic stellar mechanics?"

"Yes," the Captain replied. "So?"

The Doctor's expression was hovering somewhere between seriousness and something strangely like excitement. "Space is in constant motion…planets circling stars, and stars all moving relative to one another as the Galaxy goes round and round. Anyway, if one stands at a given point on a given planet with some constant object for reference, one can determine the date thanks to the relative positions of the stars…likewise, one point in time can be determined relative to another based upon the apparent shift of stellar objects. Usually, this sort of measurement is done from the surface of a planet…I've done the same thing, however, using the Earth as my fixed object and a recorded image from the northern monitoring station as my reference. If you'll direct your attention to the forward viewscreen, please…" A vast field of tiny red dots popped into view, a second set of virtual stars filling the void of space. They started out situated directly over their real counterparts, but then shifted…just slightly, but enough to present a decided contrast. "The red dots," RP-18 said calmly, "represent the positions of the stars when we left. As you can see, they do not match the present positions of their actual counterparts."

There was at least fifteen seconds of pure silence, and then IP-77 spoke, his tone disbelieving. " _Time travel?_ "

"Is that really what you believe, Doctor?" the Captain asked.

18 smiled. "I told you it sounded crazy…I've checked my numbers twice, however. Logically, it's the only explanation I can develop. The Lunar Base _isn't_ there…and the ground hasn't even been disturbed. Why? Because the Lunar Base has not _been_ there yet…it hasn't been built."

"Assuming you're correct," the Captain said, "where…or _when_ …are we?"

"It's difficult to say for sure. I'm working with tiny angles of shift…enough to tell a difference, but not enough to compute the exact change in date. I would estimate we're within a hundred years, certainly."

"Did we go forward or backward?"

"I _can_ tell you that much, at least…based upon the direction of shift, we've definitely gone into the past. There's more." A list of coordinates appeared in the center of the viewscreen. "These are a selection of coordinate values recorded by the main computer during the Jump. As you can see, the _z_ -coordinate is over six digits long. That would place us well outside the Galaxy."

"A malfunction?" IP-101 said.

"No, I don't think so," RP-18 replied quietly. He punched several keys, and the list of spatial coordinates changed…the value of the third digit decreased, and a fourth digit appeared. "I believe that the computer registered our motion through time, only it couldn't register four dimensions of input in a three-dimensional system. It tried to reconcile with its programming, but I think this is what it was trying to tell us."

"The last number in the first set," the Captain said. "It doesn't make sense. You said we hadn't travelled more than a hundred years, but it shows a value of over four hundred."

"I don't believe it's a direct correlation, Captain. The computer was trying to rationalize values that its programming does not accept. I believe those last numbers are somewhat arbitrary…they may represent a ratio of some kind, but I wouldn't hazard to guess. The point, however, is that they correspond to _something_ , and can be entered back into the computer with the same _relative_ value."

"Meaning you can get us home?"

"Theoretically, yes. The entire Jump was recorded…I should be able to selectively reverse the quantum waveform. Even without knowing all the numbers, I can still get the computer to recall them."

The Captain nodded. "Good. I'm sure you'll understand, Doctor, if I ask you to begin immediately. 77, set a course for Earth."

"Sir?"

"We have the opportunity of the millennium here. Assuming we really have gone backward through time, I intend to acquire some proof. I'd rather not be sent to the Mental Ward on our return."

"Aye, sir. Destination?"

"How would you like to see the original Wonka factory, gentlemen?" Expressions of wonder appeared on every face on the bridge. Assuming the Doctor's estimate was right, only one Wonka factory had yet been built…the original Facility 01. The Captain grinned. "Let's go to England, boys."


	7. The Jump, Part 2

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

* * *

As a research vessel, Deepstar Five was never intended for combat…as such, her defenses were not focused on surviving combat, but rather on avoiding it entirely. While she carried no shields and no weapons, she was still equipped with a cloaking device and a set of sensor jammers. And though not as sophisticated as the protective fields aboard the company's spy ships, these measures were still more than sufficient to hide Deepstar Five from any but the most concentrated enemy scans. Now both the cloak and the jamming systems were activated as the ship broke through Earth's atmosphere, rendering her invisible to radar…as for the naked eye, it would have detected nothing more than the faintest transparent blur. The only "witnesses" to her descent were the crewmen of a Russian cargo ship sailing near Iceland; the ship's log would make note of a loud, anomalous sound that startled the crew shortly after their noontime meal. The noise sounded like a sonic boom at low altitude…only the sky was completely clear, and no aircraft was ever seen. Aside from this one brief encounter, there was no indication at all that a spacecraft carrying tiny men from the Moon was preparing to land on Earth. Deepstar Five turned slightly southward, crossed Ireland and then the western coast of England, and followed the Thames River from its source directly to the city of London. Invisible, and inaudible over the bustle of activity on the ground, the spacecraft drifted low over the city and headed for the unmistakable candy factory of Mr. William Wonka.

 _London, England_

Deepstar Five came to a halt in midair. No one spoke…just stared. Theoretical physics and shifts in the stars were one thing, but this was something else. There could be no more mistaking it, no more pretending. They were sitting five hundred feet in the air, looking down at the great Chocolate Factory of the original Willy Wonka. _We've gone back in time. We have actually and undeniably gone_ back _in time._ SC-80 grinned. "You can take her a little lower, gents." There was a brief hesitation, and then the pilots' curiosity got the better of them…Deepstar Five dropped to within a hundred feet of the ground, hovering over the courtyard of Willy Wonka's enormous Chocolate Factory. There was no doubt that this was it; an enormous stylized "W" was emblazoned in purple over the main entrance doors, and a row of trucks painted in shiny Wonka livery sat in a neat line beside the enormous loading dock. Smoke and steam poured from countless stacks atop the massive facility, but there was not a soul to be seen moving anywhere on the premises. Given his experience with Wonka's technology, SC-80 honestly wondered for a moment whether or not some type of security system might detect the cloaked spacecraft, but his fear was ungrounded. Well, it still was not guaranteed…someone in the facility might conceivably have known they were there, but there was no indication of it. _No hidden missile batteries or anything,_ SC-80 thought wryly. _A friendlier age in the history of Wonka._

"May the Fuhrer forgive me," IP-77 said, "but I'm a bit disappointed. I always imagined it bigger."

"Well," IP-101 said mildly, "you have to remember that this factory was only meant to supply a planet. We didn't have the rest of the solar system yet...or, I guess _we don't_ , if you actually consider this as the present."

"This is unbelievable," Research Associate 46 said, his voice faint with wonder.

"I'm just sorry we can't actually go in," RP-18 added sadly.

"What do you mean we can't go in?" 46 asked, his tone suddenly defensive. "You mean we're going to come all this way and…"

"And what? Mr. Wonka might believe our story, but what about the rest of our people? This is before the advent of cloning. What would you do if a group of identical beings showed up claiming to be from the future and politely informing you that they were the ultimate culmination of your race?"

"That couldn't happen, because we're already identical."

The Doctor snorted. "You know what I mean. Psychology is difficult to predict. Who knows the effect that it would have on the Oompa-Loompas if they ultimately knew their own future? We can't go meddling about in the past…not on that level anyway. We could change the course of everything, inadvertently write ourselves out of the future and just pop out of existence…or else create some sort of branch universe and annihilate our own in the process. We have to be careful."

Several seconds of silence filled the bridge. "So…no pressure then," RA-48 finally said, and in the strangeness of the situation the line seemed much funnier than it was.

"We may not be able to go into the factory," SC-80 said, "but I still intend to collect some proof that we were here. Take us back up and look for a landing site." Deepstar Five lifted smoothly and had not risen much higher than the top of the Chocolate Factory's smokestacks when IP-101 pointed.

"There, sir." A large vacant lot lay no more than three blocks away, the last remnants of a demolished tract of buildings. Some piles of debris and a few pieces of heavy equipment dotted the site, but there was presently no activity.

"Can you fit her in there?"

"Shouldn't be a problem. We can swing the tail in beside those two tractors."

"Very well, then. Set her down." The ship yawed smoothly to the right, circling over the enormous main building of the Chocolate Factory, and within thirty seconds the craft was easing down between an enormous heap of ruined masonry and a pair of large front-end loaders. The ship settled onto her landing struts with a slight tremor, the steady hum of the lifters fading as they powered down. The main engines had already been cut in order to reduce noise, and now the bridge was completely quiet save for the occasional chirp from the computers. The landing zone was perfect; high chain-link fencing surrounded the cleared lot, strips of green plastic wound through the links to block any view from outside. The construction site was also clearly closed down, at least temporarily…there would be no risk of someone walking in unaware and crashing face-first into the side of the invisible starship. SC-80 stood. "While I know that all of you must be curious, I must insist that three men go out while the other three remain with the ship. I'll lead the exploration team." He turned to RP-18. "How are your calculations coming, Doctor?"

"Another hour, perhaps two."

"Will you object if I ask you to stay with the ship and finish?"

"I intend to."

"Good." Both IP-77 and IP-101 had stood up. "I want one of you to remain here to protect the Doc. And, if something really goes wrong, I need someone to remain who can pilot the ship."

77 nodded. "I'll do it. I've never been much of a tourist anyway. Just bring me a keychain or something."

The Captain smiled. "All right." He glanced over at the two Research Associates. "I need one more man to stay here. It's your choice."

RA-46 looked over at RA-48. "You can go. I'll stay here."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I think I've had enough excitement for today."

"All right. Well…I mean…thanks." 48 and 101 both moved to the rear of the bridge and descended the ladder to the cargo hold.

The Captain looked 77 directly in the eye. "I want one thing to be perfectly clear, pilot. If, for some reason, we get into trouble and I order you to leave without us…you do it. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

The Captain nodded. "Good. 77, you have the ship." Following 101 and 48 down the ladder, SC-80 moved over to one of the equipment lockers. "I for one don't fancy walking around London in a spacesuit…I don't know about you two." He opened the locker and pulled out a trio of black bodysuits, much lighter and less restrictive than the gear they were currently wearing. The three Oompa-Loompas quickly shed their bulky vacuum suits, trading them out for the lighter exploration gear. 48 had some trouble getting into his suit, but 101 quickly sorted him out. Once the bodysuits were properly in place, the three Oompa-Loompas donned matching, lightweight helmets. After performing a quick communications check, the Captain passed out video recording modules, which clipped to the right side of the visors. Switching their devices on, the Captain and 101 each touched a button on the left forearm of their suits, fading to invisibility…48 found the correct key and followed suit a moment later. Nothing more than a vague and occasional shimmer in the air could be seen as the Captain crossed to the control panel for the ramp and touched the appropriate button. With a faint hiss of hydraulics, the ramp lowered, allowing the three Oompa-Loompas to step onto solid ground for the first time.

It was a beautiful winter's day, cold but clear; snow lay in a crisp blanket over the city, crowning the otherwise ugly heaps of rubble around the construction site. SC-80 drew a deep breath, savoring the various unfamiliar aromas of the city, and then turned to the two Loompas behind him. Though they were invisible to observers, filters within their visors allowed the three to see each other clearly; behind their transparent face shields, the other two wore broad smiles. They had never been to Earth before…not like this, anyway. SC-80 grinned and could not help but use one of the Fuhrer's trademark expressions. "Gentlemen, as a great man once said…'let's boogie!'" And with that, he turned and led the way toward the double gates leading out of the construction site. The barrier was chained shut, but fortunately the chain was sufficiently loose that it did not have to be cut; by pushing one gate outward and pulling the other in, a gap could be created that would easily admit an Oompa-Loompa. The three pushed through the opening and found themselves on a closed section of sidewalk. But though they were alone in their immediate area, there were people everywhere around…cars hissed through the pulverized slush in the street just ahead, and pedestrians crowded the sidewalk on the far side. SC-80 had honestly never seen so many humans in his life before, and he found himself intrigued rather than intimidated. Turning right, he led his two fellows under the low wooden safety barrier which had been placed to close off their stretch of sidewalk, and then the three Oompa-Loompas were walking the streets of London.

The novelty of an expedition to Earth combined itself with the novelty of being years in the past, and the result was a world that felt as alien as any out in the depths of space. Research Associate 48 was the most fascinated of all, having never been outside the Lunar Base; while his education had shown him the mother planet, his reaction in person was far different. The trio of Oompa-Loompas exchanged frequent comments…laughing at this, puzzling at that…their differences in rank and service temporarily forgotten. So long as they did not get _too_ loud, the three could speak freely, their headgear ensuring that they would not be heard; avoiding collisions with fellow pedestrians, however, was far more difficult and demanded constant attention. The three Oompa-Loompas took a side street and rounded a corner, heading steadily in the direction of the giant smokestacks of the Wonka Chocolate Factory; at last, they stood before the giant gates, looking through the bars in awe. RA-48's face bore a look of rapture, something almost spiritual…as if he were gazing into the realm of the gods. Though his stoic expression did not betray it, SC-80 felt the same thing. A vague warm current wafted a mixture of delicious aromas down to the trio, comfortingly familiar; SC-80 closed his eyes and breathed deeply. _This was where it had all begun._ Finally, though he did not wish to leave, the Captain tapped the other two on their shoulders and turned back toward the street. "Come on, boys." While he was enjoying himself, SC-80 had not forgotten what the primary task was: while a video record was good, he wanted some solid piece of proof. He keyed his radio, opening a channel to the ship. "Do you read me, Doctor?"

"Loud and clear. We're watching the feed from your cameras, and I must say I'm having a hard time concentrating on my work."

"I'm trying to find something solid, something to show we were actually here. Any problems with taking an object?"

"I'm only dealing in theory, of course…I've never traveled through time before, and so I can hardly give you an official answer. I wouldn't think there'd be a problem, so long as you take something that won't be missed…and which has the date, if possible. We still don't know exactly _when_ we are."

"Newspaper," IP-101 said simply, pointing to a newspaper vending machine further down the street. The three Oompa-Loompas hurried down the sidewalk and drew up in front of the machine. Obviously they could not actually get a paper without either money or vandalism…but, now that it was mentioned, the question of the exact date suddenly seemed to take on paramount importance. How far back _had_ they come? But when they actually saw the paper, the date was not what they focused on. What instantly grabbed their attention instead was the headline: FIFTH GOLDEN TICKET A FAKE!

Both RA-48 and IP-101 looked at the Captain, who was staring disbelievingly at the paper. "It can't be…" His face slowly split into a broad smile, mirroring the expressions on the faces of the other two. He peered at the date on the paper. "January 31...the day before the factory tour."

"10 A.M. tomorrow," IP-101 said. "At 10 A.M. tomorrow, Mr. Willy Wonka will open the gates of his factory for the first time in a decade. Tomorrow, Charlie Bucket will be made heir to the company."

"We arrived on the last day of the Golden Ticket Contest," RA-48 said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "Just think…we could be there when they go through the gates. We could see the heir himself…Charlie Bucket."

"No," SC-80 said, obviously hating the word as he said it. "We have to gather our evidence and return. If the good Doctor's right, I'm not willing to risk jeopardizing one of the most critical days in the history of the company…not for any reason."

"It's only twenty-four hours!" 48 pleaded. "Less in fact!"

"I'm sorry but no," 80 repeated, his tone resolute. "Now, I'm going to get one of these damned newspapers if I have to disassemble this machine piece by…"

But, at that exact moment, a passing man in a long tweed coat slammed a copy of the exact same newspaper onto the lip of the garbage can beside the vending machine. "Bastard faking a ticket…the nerve of some people…" He was obviously both irritated and in a hurry; by consequence, he did not bother to see if his newspaper actually landed in the trash or not. And so it bounced off the side and landed directly in front of SC-80 like some gift from the gods, a bit crumpled but otherwise serviceable. The Oompa-Loompa snatched the paper up and had it folded in his suit the instant it touched the ground.

The Captain grinned. "I'd rather have the one from the actual day of the tour, of course, but this is almost as good. And this paper is also more difficult for anyone to claim that we faked…I mean, we all know the story of the actual tour, but who knows the details of how…" He opened the paper and read the Russian boy's name with difficulty, "…faked a Golden Ticket? Now _this_ is evidence."

RA-48 still looked dejected, but his expression brightened as he spotted something on the next block…a candy shop. "Say, is anyone else hungry?"

"I could go for something," IP-101 said. "How about you, Cap?"

"I suppose. Only one problem: what about money? I mean, stealing most stuff is one thing, but stealing candy…that's just wrong."

"Oh…" 48's face fell again, and the three Oompa-Loompas turned to head back to the ship. But they had not gone more than ten feet when 48 suddenly looked down and pointed at something stuck in a pile of snow in the gutter. "Say, what's that?"

"What's what?"

" _That_." 48 sloshed off the sidewalk, sinking up to his knee in snow, and plucked the object out of the drift. It was, unmistakably, money…a ten-pound bill, to be exact. 48 looked at the other two and then back down the street to the candy shop; no one said anything, just fell into line behind him.

"I'm having a thought," IP-101 said to the Captain. "Something else we could bring back as proof."

"What?"

"Some Chadworth candy. It's no longer in production anywhere in the world…in our time, I mean. Right?"

"Right."

"And we had a bunch of samples for study, but the last of those expired and were destroyed a couple of years ago. Right?"

"At least a couple years, probably more. I like it. Since Chadworth Industries' candy products no longer exist anywhere in the world…"

"And no one in their right mind would save the stuff to eat when we have access to Wonka sweets…"

"We take some back, and show the Fuhrer some _fresh_ ancient candy. Excellent."

The three Oompa-Loompas stopped short at the door to the candy shop; an elderly woman and her grandson were just preparing to go inside, and the Captain used the opportunity to catch the door and hold it open for his comrades before silently slipping inside himself. Ten pounds was enough to buy quite a bit of candy…48 naturally had to have a Wonka bar to tide him over, and three bars of Chadworth chocolate would be enough to validate their story. But that still left money over, and it was not as if they could get change. Naturally, the trio could have just overpaid, but the Captain hated when he did not get his money's worth. He radioed the ship. "Anyone want anything while we're here?"

"No thanks," 77 replied. "We've got our own provisions…in fact we just finished eating."

"Right." The Captain tapped 101 on the shoulder. "Grab three more of those Chadworth bars, will you?"

"Uh…yes, sir. May I ask why?"

"I think we should try them. We get to eat Wonka sweets every day of our lives, and sometimes I wonder if we really appreciate them. So let's try the competition and see just how much better our stuff is."

"Sir, that's approaching treason. Actively supporting the enemy…"

The Captain snorted. "I don't think five pounds' worth of extra business is going to result in Chadworth eventually winning the war. Now grab me some of that nasty candy, soldier. That's an order."

"Yes, sir."

The radio crackled, and the Doctor's voice suddenly spoke. "Gentlemen, calculations for the return jump are complete. We're ready as soon as you're all back onboard. And please no Chadworth candy for me. I tried it once, and I don't feel compelled to do it again."

"That bad?" the Captain asked.

"No, just uh…well, you'll see."

101 darted through a group of customers and came to stand beside the Captain, who was utilizing the relative safety of an end display as cover from the shop's occupants. "Got it, sir."

"Anything else for you, 48?"

"No," came back the somewhat muffled reply…48 already had the wrapper off of his Wonka bar and had wedged it up under his visor.

"All right. Here, give me that money." Sliding smoothly between a group of schoolchildren and the wall, the Captain made his way over to the cash register. Unable to actually reach the counter, he waited until the shopkeeper's back was turned before boosting himself up on a shelf and depositing the ten-pound bill on the register. Hopping down, he gestured to his comrades, and they followed a quartet of particularly rambunctious schoolboys out through the door of the shop. The proprietor turned around almost immediately afterward and was mystified as to who had placed money on top of his register…after a brief pause, he shrugged and deposited the bill in his cash drawer.

"Let's see if we can't find a quiet spot for a break," the Captain said, turning into the narrow alley beside the candy shop; finding the cover of a recessed doorway, he and his two fellows took the opportunity to remove their headgear and sample some of what the ten pounds had bought. The Captain gingerly unwrapped one end of a bar of plain Chadworth milk chocolate, broke off a large piece, and placed it in his mouth, allowing it to melt slowly on his tongue. He offered the bar to the other two, and they each took a piece as well.

IP-101 frowned. "It's…"

"A little too _sweet._ "

"Didn't put in enough actual chocolate…"

"And so compensated with too much sugar."

"Sad, really."

"An amateur mistake."

"It could have been so much better."

"But, all the same, there's something _almost_ familiar about it."

"Well, the original Fuhrer did work with the Chadworths after all, once upon a time. I suppose there's a possibility that maybe his recipes and theirs…"

"I'll forget you said that. The Secret Police wouldn't appreciate that kind of talk."

"Yes, of course. Forgive me. I just have to wonder, though."

"Indeed. Well, gentlemen, I think it's time we were getting back to our own time. I really am sorry, 48," the Captain said, placing a hand on the young scientist's shoulder. "I wish we could stay for the beginning of the tour tomorrow…I really do."

"It's all right, sir. I understand."

The Captain nodded and replaced his hood, leading the way down the alley to the next street. The Oompa-Loompas followed it and then cut through another alley to reach the construction site, where their ship was ready and waiting. It was just chance that they did not return by their original route, but…if they had…they would have encountered a particular person on the sidewalk. He was a boy of twelve years, rather small and thin, his clothes worn and patched. He too stopped outside the gates of the Chocolate Factory and paused, taking in the sight and the smells with something akin to veneration. Indeed, in another iteration of history, he would have had the chance to go inside that amazing factory, to experience its wonders for himself. And RA-48 would have had his chance to see the heir in person, for this boy's name was Charlie Bucket. But, alas, it was not to be. Charlie Bucket walked on past the gates of the Wonka factory. In another iteration of history, he would have glimpsed a bit of waving paper protruding from the snow…he would have picked up the ten-pound note himself and run to the same candy shop, where he would have purchased the Wonka Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight Bar that held the final…and legitimate…Golden Ticket. But none of that was to be.

If the Oompa-Loompas of Deepstar Five could have known what they had done, they undoubtedly would have rushed back. They would have replaced the money; they would have searched for the bar with the Golden Ticket themselves and would have done whatever necessary to see that it ended up in Charlie Bucket's possession. But they remained blissfully ignorant as their ship climbed out of Earth's atmosphere and vanished in a brilliant flare of light, now on their way back to a future which was no longer their own.


	8. Harsh Realities, Part 1

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

* * *

 _Deepstar Five, Earth orbit_

Back in his full vacuum suit, SC-80 watched from the captain's chair as Earth fell away behind the ship. Empty space opened ahead, and he turned to RP-18. "Well, Doctor, it's your show."

RP-18 pressed several buttons on his console. "I'm uploading the completed waveform now…I've basically given the warp drive a road map back to the exact second in time that we first jumped. Captain, I am not boasting when I say I am confident in my work. All the same, however, I am a man of science…and I always bear in mind the margin for error."

The Captain grimaced. "Do I really want to hear this right before we Jump?"

RP-18 shook his head. "All I'm saying is this: I've done everything I can…but I make no guarantees."

SC-80 nodded slowly. "I wouldn't expect you to, Doctor." He turned to the pilots. "Are we ready?"

"Course data is fully uploaded, sir. We've cleared Earth's gravity well. Ready to Jump on your command."

"Do it." Again the shimmering tunnel appeared, pulling Deepstar Five into its limitless depths…the flight timer appeared at the top of the main viewscreen and again began counting down. The bridge was completely silent and still, every member of the crew waiting nervously to see exactly where and _when_ the ship was presently headed. Once at warp, there was nothing more for the Doctor to do; RP-18 sat at his console, his hands folded and his face grim as he stared at the view ahead. Ten seconds. Five seconds. The warp tunnel widened and shimmered away into nothingness, and the blackness at the end of the endless corridor was filled not by stars but by the gray bulk of… "HARD TO PORT!" SC-80 bellowed as the flank of an enormous spacecraft suddenly appeared in front of Deepstar Five, no more than a kilometer ahead. IP-77 swore and jerked hard on the controls; Five rolled hard and turned through almost ninety degrees, just narrowly clearing the stern of the massive craft.

"What the hell was _that_?" IP-101 asked, his tone incredulous…he punched up the view from the aft camera in one corner of the main viewscreen, showing the vessel that they had nearly struck. It was a massive gray slab with a double row of enormous spherical modules attached to both top and bottom; it resembled a freighter or tanker of some kind, but it was clearly not Wonka in origin.

"I don't know," 77 replied, "but we have bigger problems!" The tanker, or whatever it was, was not alone. _Hundreds_ of craft filled the space ahead; the Moon stretched across the entire forward view…only something was very wrong. Huge areas of the surface were covered in development, the sprawling facility below a dozen times the size of the Lunar Base. And indeed facility was a misnomer…this was a _city._ The development, however, was clearly not finished. Tiny construction ships darted among the buildings like mechanical fish, the smallest flitting about with welders while larger vessels fitted structural components in place with mechanical arms. Vast barges hung in place above the buildings, keeping their charges supplied with construction materials; enormous tankers like the one Deepstar had almost struck slowly circled the building site, the worker ships flitting about them like hummingbirds as they refueled.

A dozen thoughts popped simultaneously in the Captain's mind like fireworks, only he never had a chance to speak. A genderless synthetic voice spoke smoothly through the bridge speakers, insistent but flawlessly polite: "Warning, you are entering a restricted area. Warning, you are entering…" The first voice, however, was quickly cut off by a second…which was not nearly as pleasant. This was obviously a live speaker, though his tone was reduced to a harsh growl by whatever communications system he was using. "Unidentified craft, this is Fox Two Theta. You have illegally entered restricted airspace. As per Special Order 6377, you are hereby remanded to the jurisdiction of Chadworth Industries' Security Division. Hold position and prepare to be boarded."

"Incoming craft on screen," IP-101 said somewhat nervously. The viewscreen changed to show two vessels rapidly cutting through the swarming traffic toward Deepstar Five. They resembled some cross between enormous beetles and helicopter gunships…only without the rotors…though they were smaller than the Wonka ship, there were certainly more than a match for it. Deepstar Five was unarmed, but both these craft were festooned liberally with both guns and missile packs. And there could be no mistaking the insignia painted above their cockpit canopies…in disbelief, SC-80 pulled one of the sample bars of Chadworth candy from within a pocket and stared at the logo in the top right corner of the wrapper. It was the same.

The Captain gave his pilots a pointed glance. "I don't know what the hell's going on, but I don't think we want any part of it. Engage the cloak and get us out of here."

"Aye, sir!" IP-101 punched keys, reengaging the cloaking device, while IP-77 pulled Deepstar Five hard to the left, out of the path of the two approaching spacecraft.

The harsh mechanical voice rose in both pitch and volume. "Halt immediately or you will be fired…" But the gunners didn't wait for the speaker to finish. A searing blue-white beam lashed out from beneath the nose of the first gunship, striking Deepstar Five just as she faded to invisibility…the hard turn to port saved the ship's engines, but the enemy weapon clipped the top of the warp module. An alarm sounded on the bridge as fluid began to boil out of the warp drive's ruptured coolant reservoir, sending a mist of pale green liquid out into space. With the constant release of pressurized liquid from within the hull, the cloaking device could not properly establish itself over the wound…Deepstar Five had just lost her only advantage.

"EVASIVE MANEUVERS!" the Captain roared, and the drive engines roared up to maximum thrust as the ungainly Wonka ship suddenly shot straight toward her pursuers, dropping and veering hard to evade another laser blast. "Damn it!" SC-80 spat, turning to his three civilian crewmen. "Best buckle in, gentlemen!" he said, securing his own restraint harness. "77, I don't think I have to tell you what to do."

"No, sir!" The two Chadworth gunships swung around hard, spitting bright bursts of flame, and a number of tiny objects struck Deepstar's hull with a metallic clatter. They sounded almost like micrometeoroids, but there could be no doubt as to what they actually were: large-caliber bullets. IP-77 shoved his controls forward and Deepstar Five plummeted, making a rollercoaster dive toward the lunar surface. Despite the ship's unremarkable ion drives and rather awkward balance, 77 handled her like a jet fighter…darting in among the construction vessels, he dodged incoming craft on all sides. The missile alert shrilled and 77 banked hard, veering underneath one of the barges; the incoming missile struck the massive transport vessel and blew it cleanly in half, sending its vast load of metal falling lazily toward the lunar surface. 77 dropped again, now angling between the titanic buildings themselves; the enemy craft were too smart to keep shooting, but they doggedly maintained pursuit. 77 banked hard around one of the buildings and narrowly dodged a construction vehicle that suddenly appeared from behind the tower; the lead gunship was not so fortunate, and he slammed into the service vehicle at full speed. But the other gunship was still coming in fast, and now more of them began to appear from around the perimeter of the construction site, closing in from all angles. 77 swore. "I can't lose 'em! Request permission to head for Earth, sir!"

"Use the atmosphere?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Do it! 101, get that damned coolant leak secured!"

"Working on it, sir! Number one pressure valve is completely fused! I can't lock it down! Attempting bypass!"

77 pulled up hard, rocketing into open space; the gunships followed, keeping pace with the larger ship easily. A flash of silver from starboard drew the Captain's attention, and he turned his head to look…another city opened up on the Moon's opposite side, easily as large as the one they had just left. But then the ship lurched again, and the lunar colonies disappeared from both sight and mind. There were more pressing matters. The cloaking device was still attempting to cover the ship, making her at least partially invisible…between that and the undeniable skill of her pilot, she was avoiding most of the hostile fire. Blue-white laser blasts streaked past, along with untold numbers of bullets…the missile warning chimed again, and the six crewmen were crushed downward in their seats as 77 threw the ship into a hard roll to starboard, the effects of inertia managing to overcome the dampening field. The warhead missed but exploded anyway thanks to a proximity fuse…Deepstar Five shook brutally, and another loud alarm began sounding: the decompression alert. "HELMETS ON!" 80 yelled as he slammed his own into place; 101 donned his helmet and then swiftly put 77's on for him, managing to get the other Oompa-Loompa into a helmet without breaking his hold on the controls.

Earth was rapidly expanding to fill the forward view, 77 muttering and cursing rapidly to himself as he dodged volley after volley…the ship began to shake, and an orange corona of heat flared around the forward windows. The cloak flared and automatically disengaged, unable to maintain itself during atmospheric entry. The Captain punched up the aft view, watching as the gunships started to follow but then quickly reconsidered; most of them were not in position for atmospheric entry, and they rapidly pulled up and broke away. But then the missile warning shrilled one last time. By rights, the violence of the superheated airstream should have caught the projectile and torn it to pieces…but, impossibly, the missile came skating through the clear channel of air directly behind Deepstar, The Captain started to shout a warning, but it was far too late. He managed no more than a first syllable before the projectile struck, obliterating Deepstar Five's starboard engine. Streaming fire and smoke, the wounded Wonka spacecraft plunged through the atmosphere out of control…unable to line up another shot, her pursuer instead fell away and radioed in news of the kill.

The Captain honestly did not remember much of the descent, only brief images and impressions: the scream of the alarms, the smoke filling the bridge, the ground looming ever closer. He shouted several orders, though he did not remember what they were afterward; he blacked out for several minutes on impact, and his next clear thought came as he found himself lying on his right side on the floor of the bridge. _No, not the floor_ …he was still in his seat, hanging from his restraint harness, and the entire ship was now resting on its starboard flank. He reached up and unclasped his helmet, letting it fall away. In the seat ahead, IP-77 swore and drew his knife; the pilot's spacesuit had gotten hooked on the mangled remains of his seat, and 77 quickly cut away both the belts and his flight gear. Now in his standard uniform, he turned sideways and climbed "down" the main flight console to help 101. With a grunt, the Captain heaved himself up far enough to gain some leverage on his harness and finally pulled the main buckle free, allowing him to drop down and stand on the wall.

"Status?" he asked with a cough, feeling stupid to even ask; the bridge was a wreck, every console smashed. The ceiling had caved in at the rear of the compartment, blocking the access ladder.

"I'm alive," grunted IP-77 as he struggled to turn the chair containing RA-46, who had not moved since impact. The inside of the Research Associate's visor was spattered with blood; 77 removed 46's helmet and placed two fingers against the side of the other Oompa-Loompa's neck. The cold feeling in the Captain's gut already told him what 77 confirmed. The pilot did not speak, only shook his head and replaced the helmet gently. 48 and 101 were freeing the Doctor, who stood up too quickly and almost fell as he absorbed the news that one of his staff was dead.

101 shook his head. "I'm sorry, Doc. Still, it's damned lucky that any of us…"

The Captain silenced him with a raised hand; a distant sound was coming in from outside, and now all of them heard it clearly. Helicopters. "We need to get out of here! NOW!" the Captain said. 77 led the way, kicking out a section of the fractured main viewport; 101 started to follow but 48 hesitated, looking sadly at the body of his friend.

"We can't just leave him."

"If we don't go now," RP-18 said, "we may all end up in prison or worse." He placed a comforting hand on his assistant's shoulder. "Come on now, son. Saving ourselves is what he'd want us to do."

The Doctor and 48 slipped out through the broken viewport, leaving the Captain as the last one off the ship. He took one brief glance back…but that was all. He slid down the curve of the ship's prow onto the ground and stood up just as a spotlight centered directly on him, all but blinding him; the helicopter that carried it was approaching fast, almost directly over the wreck. Dozens more lights were crossing the marsh toward the crash site, both men and vehicles…they might have been search-and-rescue, but the Captain doubted it. "Come on, sir!" 101 yelled, seizing the Captain's arm and dragging him bodily along. A voice bellowed from the helicopter, ordering them to halt…a second aircraft appeared from over the trees ahead, its light illuminating the figures of the other three Oompa-Loompas. A machinegun thundered, kicking up plumes of water and tufts of marsh grass; the display was obviously intended to intimidate rather than kill, because none of the rounds landed anywhere near them. The Captain was running, stumbling, falling, rising again…his vacuum suit was ensnaring his legs and making it difficult to move. Grabbing the neck of the suit, he tore the top zipper open and yanked his arms free; he pushed downward violently, and the suit fell down to his knees. It promptly bunched and sent him sprawling, marsh water soaking his uniform…he flipped over and kicked violently, and the cumbersome vacuum suit flopped away as the Captain leapt to his feet and began running again. The others were shedding their suits as well…one of the helicopters made another pass, and the five Oompa-Loompas threw themselves to the ground. The aircraft dropped and hovered just ahead, thinking to block them off from the cover of the trees. But it was too late. Scattering, the group all reached the edge of the forest separately but successfully, stopping only for a brief moment to regroup once under cover. The second all of them were accounted for, they turned and continued running, thinking only of putting distance between themselves and their pursuers.


	9. Harsh Realities, Part 2

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

* * *

 _Unidentified forest, Earth_

The Captain finally called for a halt when they reached the road. It was a large highway, four lanes located at the top of an embankment…what drew the Captain's attention, however, was the broad cement culvert which ran beneath the road. He and his men had been running for the better part of an hour without rest, and it was beginning to take its toll. The Doctor was having an especially difficult time, wheezing uncontrollably as he sat down on the concrete floor of the drainage tunnel. The culvert did not offer much in the way of shelter but at least made for a decent hiding place; ordinarily, the Captain would have suggested starting a fire to ward off the cold, but they could not risk it. Helicopters still buzzed overhead with alarming frequency, and it was apparent that the five surviving crewmen of Deepstar were presently in very high demand. And now that they had a chance to stop and properly consider their situation, the questions started immediately.

"Something tells me we're not back home," IP-101 said sarcastically, his voice coming out in irregular gasps as he struggled to catch his breath.

"Gee, what tipped you off?" 77 replied.

SC-80 turned to RP-18. "Doctor…any ideas?"

"Well," RP-18 said, rubbing his aching chest with one hand, "to state the obvious, we are indeed _not_ home. I'm confident that we've arrived at the right date…beyond that I don't know."

"Could it be like a parallel universe or something?" RA-48 asked. "Maybe we went into some alternate continuum?"

"Theoretically possible," the Doctor said, "but I doubt it. We had the same type of quantum waveform going both directions…if you think of the warp drive as a transmission, we were in the same 'gear,' as it were. I doubt that we would experience a spontaneous breach of the space-time continuum, not without some manner of catastrophic malfunction. And that assumes it's even possible _at all_. No, I think we're in the proper reality, just altered."

"How?" IP-77 said, his tone bordering on hostility. "How in hell do you explain _this_? Chadworth Industries…the same Chadworth Industries that we stamped out utterly, liquidated their assets and everything…is now building a lunar facility that makes ours look like a dollhouse? How does Chadworth exist at all? Where did they get spacecraft and energy weapons? Unless history spontaneously friggin' rewrote itself…"

"I don't think it did."

There was a moment of silence, and then the Captain spoke. "Doctor, you warned us yourself of the potential dangers of interacting with the past. We spoke to no one, touched almost nothing. And the only things that we removed were a newspaper that was destined for the garbage can and a few bars of candy." _Not that we even have that now,_ the Captain suddenly realized…both the candy and the paper had been left in a storage locker on the ship.

"But you bought the candy, yes? With a ten-pound note that you found in the street?"

"Yes. Could picking the money up have changed something?"

"I don't know. I certainly didn't believe so at the time, or I would have stopped you. Truthfully, I don't know what it might have been, but the simple fact is that _we_ must have changed _something_. As you said, 77, history doesn't spontaneously change. And the only alterations to the timeline that I know of…unless someone else has a time machine…were those minor changes that we incurred."

"Well, good luck fixing whatever we did," 77 growled. "We're done. We don't even have a ship."

"Stow that," the Captain said quietly. "We'll get her back. I don't know how, but we have to. In the meantime, there is a good chance that we may be stuck in this alternate timeline for some while. There's nothing I can say that will prepare you for that…all that matters is that we keep our heads. Now let's go over what little we know. Chadworth Industries exists and is clearly very powerful, but that doesn't mean we won't find allies. Hell, we may even be able to find the Fuhrer. The immediate concern, however, is basic necessities: food, shelter, and clothing. We also need weapons. The idea is to stay hidden, of course, but that may be easier said than done. I have my blaster pistol on me and one spare power cell…that's about a hundred shots total. 77 and 101 should both be armed…what about the Doctor and 48?"

Both civilians shook their heads, and 101 sadly held out his empty hands. "I'm sorry, Captain. When I pulled my spacesuit off, it caught my holster…that was the last I saw of my gun. I tried to find it, but…" he let the sentence trail off. "I still have this, though," he said, pulling a spare power cell off his belt, "give us a few more shots at least."

"77?"

"Yeah, I've got my blaster. Also brought my knife, as you know…I never leave the barracks without it."

"So we've got two compact blasters and a knife." _Hardly what I might have wished for,_ the Captain thought, _but, on the other hand, I should be grateful that we have anything at all._ He nodded. "Well, it's something…just remember that we may not have any means to recharge those power cells once they're dead. It goes without saying anyway, but we have to conserve ammunition. Once we're empty, we may be empty for good. So we should also see about acquiring more firearms as soon as possible…I can only pray that some Oompa-Loompa size guns exist in whatever reality this is. Getting weapons is a more complicated issue, though. For starters, let's just stick to food, clothes, and lodging. We're underneath a highway…logic dictates that it goes somewhere. Speaking of which, does anyone know _where_ we are? I wasn't entirely lucid during the descent."

"We're back in England, somewhere," IP-77 grunted. "I didn't exactly have time to program a new reentry path, so the computer just followed the most recent flight plan. We came down west of London…beyond that I don't know."

The Captain nodded. "Well, we'll find out soon enough. We'll remain here for a couple of hours, until first light. I know a drainage channel isn't exactly a luxury hotel, but see if you gentlemen can't get some sleep. I have first watch."


	10. Harsh Realities, Part 3

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

* * *

 _Unidentified forest, England_

Once the adrenaline finally wore off, the Captain began to nod off almost immediately. Forcing himself to remain awake, he stood and walked from one end of the culvert to the other, using the motion to keep himself from falling asleep. Walking also helped with the cold, though not as much as he might have liked. He was thoroughly and completely exhausted by the time he woke IP-77 roughly two hours later; the moment the pilot was up and at his post, the Captain lay down on the hard cement, folded his body as tightly as possible to conserve warmth, and was almost instantly unconscious. It seemed no more than five or ten seconds later that a hand was shaking his shoulder, gently at first and then vigorously. Finally his eyes opened, and he sat up. "Report."

"Everything's fine, Captain," replied IP-101. "Sun's coming up…we should move."

"Roger that." SC-80 stood and winced as both muscles and bones gave protest…while he had slept soundly enough, he could certainly tell that he had been lying on concrete. He was sore, and cold. The Captain followed IP-101 to the end of the culvert; IP-77 was still rousing the Doctor and RA-48. The sky was a pale blue in the predawn light, and the ground was now covered by a layer of snow.

"Don't know when it started," 101 said, indicating the layer of whiteness that covered the forest floor, "it was already falling when 77 woke me up." His teeth were chattering as he spoke…for that matter, so were the Captain's own. Their uniforms held in heat, designed for comfort in the somewhat chilly environment of a spacecraft, but they were certainly not winter warfare gear.

"We're going to need some heavier clothes," the Captain said, and 101 simply gave a shivering nod in reply. Within three minutes, the five Oompa-Loompas were on their feet and walking, following the highway south…there were no belongings to pack, no fire to extinguish, and no food to eat either. They were tired, cold, and hungry, but there was nothing for it except to keep moving. The five walked in silence, keeping the highway in sight but remaining well back in the cover of the trees; there was almost no traffic, one car passing perhaps every ten or fifteen minutes. The morning was completely still, quiet save for the tramping of their feet through the snow…no one spoke, because there was not much to say. Finally, the trees thinned, and a town came into view off to the right side of the highway ahead; the Oompa-Loompas turned in its direction, but it soon became apparent that something was very wrong. They walked through the town, still following the direction of the highway, but it was obvious that they would not be receiving any help here. The community, which had likely been home to ten or twenty thousand people, was nothing more than ruins. More than half of the structures were heavily damaged, many of them torn apart by explosives; bullet holes pockmarked everything, and the burned-out wreckage of several armored vehicles lay rusting in the streets. There was no indicator as to who had been fighting here or why; any insignia on the wrecked vehicles had been destroyed by heat or rust. The surviving buildings stood bare and empty, vacant windows and doorframes yawning like open mouths at the five tiny travelers as they passed. Everything was eerily silent; there were no scavengers or vagrants, not even any birds nesting within the ruins of the dead town. No one spoke, as if fearing the consequences of breaking that dread silence. The few significant and nervous glances that the crewmembers exchanged were enough to communicate what all of them were thinking: _Whatever happened here, it was bad._ Thoughts whirled in the Captain's mind, considering the possibilities…invasion, civil war, insurrection…the Captain could only wonder just what sort of world he and his crew had gotten themselves trapped in.

The abandoned city gave way to more forest, and the Loompas again found their way back to the main road; after another two or three hours of walking, they found themselves at the crest of a hill, and more development came into sight ahead. It was by now perhaps nine o'clock in the morning, and the exhausted crew of Deepstar Five immediately began nursing notions of food and warmth as they followed the highway down the hill toward a broad spread of urban construction, tall buildings of steel and glass rising beyond an outer layer of suburbs. Only there was a problem. The forest terminated perhaps a hundred yards from the edge of the city…and the concrete wall which had apparently been put up around the entire development. The highway passed through a checkpoint ahead; while the gates were open, distant figures could be seen in the watchtowers at either side of the road. The Captain had no idea whether the men in the guard stations had anything to do with Chadworth Industries, but it was a risk he could not take. The Oompa-Loompas doubled back into the trees and headed east along the wall until they reached the entrance point for a smaller two-lane road; there was another checkpoint here, but it was empty. After several minutes of careful observation, the Oompa-Loompas calmly strolled down the shoulder of the road and into the outskirts of the city, hoping that their nonchalance would protect them if nothing else. The Captain could not suppress a wave of foreboding as he led his men through the heavy concrete wall…a decorative archway stretched over the road, the graceful wrought iron a stark contrast to the ugly and simple concrete. But what held the Captain's attention was the image worked in the iron: a sword, its point aimed downward, with graceful wings rising from the hilt.

A distant church bell chimed ten o'clock as the five Oompa-Loompas cautiously made their way down the first street of the unknown city; this "suburb" in fact appeared to be a smaller town that had gotten absorbed by the larger metropolitan area as it had expanded. The Captain had never spent much time on Earth and even less in England…he had no idea as to what city this might be, and he found himself wishing that he had stopped to check one of the mileage signs along the highway. The Captain began sticking near walls and other potential cover points, his senses on edge. It was too quiet, silent save for the occasional distant sound of an engine. The occasional human pedestrian was walking here or there, but these few visible persons seemed ill at ease; no one seemed to want to be in the open any longer than necessary. The walkers moved rapidly, gazes fixed on the ground as they moved quickly from one door or alleyway to the next. One man suddenly came out of a door immediately to the right of the five Oompa-Loompas, swearing in surprise as he suddenly came face-to-face with the group of tiny people…RP-18 offered a "Good morning, sir," but the man only swallowed nervously and rapidly headed the other direction down the block.

"What are we looking for, sir?" IP-77 asked quietly but tensely, his hand on the grip of his blaster…the Captain looked over at him, and he could only shake his head.

"I don't know…not even knowing where we are…" he let the sentence trail off. The small group kept moving further into the city, the buildings here masonry affairs averaging five or six stories. Clearly, business was not good in this particular business district; most of the ground-floor establishments were boarded up, the office spaces above deserted or converted into shabby apartments. Only the presence of hanging laundry and the odd knick-knack in a window showed that this area was inhabited, however sparsely. The only constant presence was that of the same insignia: the winged sword. Posters and banners were pasted to almost every wall of sufficient size, many of them faded or marred by graffiti, but they all showed the same icon, painted in red against a black or white background. And a new sound was gradually pushing its way through the quiet, distant but growing louder: music. The Oompa-Loompas made their way to the end of another block, the music gradually swelling on all sides of them…and then they came to the source. Well, one of the sources, anyway. The street opened onto a square ahead, roads leading off in various directions…on the nearest street corner stood a device rather like a lamppost, only instead of a light it supported a wide television screen and a set of broadcast speakers. The screen was presently blank save for a background again showing the winged sword icon, and some sort of military march or anthem was humming out of the tinny speakers. Identical devices were dotted around the square and further down the adjacent streets, the combined effect of their synchronized speakers amplifying the quiet music into a mechanical choir.

"It's like a George Orwell novel," IP-101 muttered as the small group stopped to consider the public broadcast device. The Captain tried to place the music that was being played, but he could not. Whatever it was, he could not shake his growing suspicion that the government here was sure to be an unpleasant one. A car entered the square from the far side, and the Captain suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to keep moving.

"Come on, boys," he said, and promptly began crossing to the right side of the square. Just as the group moved away from the television screen, however, something happened that stopped RA-48…who was at the rear of the group. The anthem ended on a dramatic crescendo, and the screen suddenly changed to show a seated man…he was tall and very gaunt, thinning black hair slicked back over his head. His clothing was dark, somewhere between business suit and military uniform, and his piercing eyes stared out with frightening intensity from behind a pair of plain, dark-rimmed spectacles. Nothing was visible behind him except darkness, lights placed so that he alone was illuminated and seemed to melt out of the dark; it was an impressive effect, and more than a little ominous. The man spoke, his powerful demeanor somewhat diminished by a high, nasal voice. "My fellow citizens," he began, "it gives me the utmost pleasure to announce that…as of this morning…the most dangerous man in the world is at last within the custody of your government. All of us may at last breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that…." But RA-48 quickly lost his concentration on the man's words. What held his attention was the caption at the bottom of the screen: MINISTER TEAVEE CONFIRMS CAPTURE OF PUBLIC ENEMY NO. 1.

 _Minister Teavee_ …RA-48 could only stare. Like every clone, he had been taught the history of the Wonka Company during his conditioning. And he had only ever heard of one individual with the last name Teavee… _Was it possible?_ _Mike Teavee…American…One of the five children who participated in the tour of Willy Wonka's factory…involved in an incident in the Television Chocolate Room…_

"48, stay together!" came the sharp voice of IP-77, breaking him out of his reverie. 48 started to point to the screen, but the pilot had already turned his back and was heading after the others across the square. Unable to do anything else, 48 hurried after him. The crew was headed diagonally across the square, passing by yet another iteration of the mysterious government insignia…in the center of the square, the winged sword was displayed yet again. Obviously, another statue had been removed at some point in the past to make room for the single, monolithic piece of weather-beaten steel that now stood in its place…the blade of the sword was twenty feet high, the span of the upswept wings equal if not larger. Just past the statue, the Captain suddenly stopped, staring intently. As the car that had previously entered the square disappeared down a side street, something else entered. It was, unmistakably, another Oompa-Loompa, dressed in some manner of civilian clothing. He rapidly crossed the far side of the square and turned down another street, his movements quick and furtive. The Captain called out "Excuse me, sir!" in a loud voice, but the other gave no indication of having heard; now the Captain changed direction and quickly followed.

"Where are we going?" IP-101 asked pointedly.

The Captain glanced back over his shoulder. "Even in our own time and place, it's odd for one of us to be walking around out in public…but that man earlier didn't seem overly surprised to see us. If Oompa-Loompas are part of the regular citizenry, then we might be able to find someone willing to help us; if nothing else, he might give us some information." The crew of Deepstar Five rapidly followed the other down a series of streets and through an alley; despite another attempt at gaining his attention, he was either very intent on his purpose or was deliberately ignoring them. Finally, he turned sharply into a gateway just ahead, entering an enclosed courtyard surrounded by several apartment blocks. A door opened and he entered quickly, taking a single glance back at those following him. "Well, he knows we're here," the Captain said, carefully observing the door that the other had left open behind him. "It looks like he wants us to follow."

"Or he's leading us into a trap," IP-77 growled.

"Possible," the Captain said slowly. He drew his blaster and handed it to IP-101. "Stay here and watch our backs," he said, indicating the arched gateway. "Just in case anyone tries to get behind us."

"Sir." 101 accepted the weapon and took up a concealed position in the gate.

"Everyone else with me," the Captain said. "You've got point, 77." The other pilot nodded and led the way across the courtyard, his eyes sweeping the windows of the surrounding buildings. He moved through the doorway first, drawing his weapon. 77 carefully checked left, then right…stairs creaked above, and the pilot gestured for the others to follow as he crossed a corridor and started up the staircase directly ahead, gun held at his side. The Captain and the others followed, giving 77 sufficient room to lead…they moved up several flights of stairs to the third floor, where another door lay open across the landing. 77 moved through, passed several rooms, and then turned a corner into one of the apartments. Not wanting to lose visual contact, the Captain hurried ahead, 48 and the Doctor close behind. The three Oompa-Loompas moved quickly into the apartment behind 77…only 77 was not there. The door to the apartment slammed shut, another door exploding open to the right. RA-48 shouted from behind the Captain and the officer started to turn…only something cold and hard pressed against the side of his head. He froze instantly. Moving only his eyes, he looked over to see another Oompa-Loompa holding the shotgun that was presently resting against his temple, the other's face split in a broad grin. "Welcome to our humble home, bro." The weapon spun around, the stock crashing into the Captain's solar plexus; bent over double and struggling just to breathe, he was unable to resist as he and the others were seized and roughly shoved forward through several rooms, down a corridor, and into the living room of another apartment.

77 was already in here, his blaster taken from him and now lying on the corner of a large desk which dominated the far side of the room…the space had been transformed into a sort of office, bare save for the desk and some cheap, Oompa-Loompa-sized folding furniture. The desk had been extensively modified, lowered for easier use by its owner; all of the figures in the room were Oompa-Loompas, seven armed men against the Captain and his three crew members. In disconnected fashion, the Captain could not help but notice the strangeness of his opponents, having been accustomed to nothing but the uniformity of clones his entire life. The hostiles were all male, but that was the only similarity; their heights, builds, facial hair, clothing, and hairstyles varied wildly. The Oompa-Loompa they had followed stood off to one side of the desk and pointed, speaking in the strangest accent the Captain had ever heard…the closest comparison that SC-80 could think of was Jamaican, but even that was not nearly right.

"Dese de ones followed me, boss."

The Oompa-Loompa seated behind the desk sat forward and took a long, hard look at the intruders…just as the crew of Deepstar Five took a long, hard look at him. He was like nothing they had ever seen; his cheap, dark suit made a striking contrast with the extensive braids and dreadlocks into which his hair was pulled. The seated Oompa-Loompa drew a gold-plated pistol and sat back in his chair, idly resting the gun on the desktop…for the first time, the Captain noticed the small heap of white powder piled on a tiny glass plate beside 77's blaster. When the Oompa-Loompa spoke, his accent was even stronger than that of his associate. "Well, well, what we got heah, eh?" he asked, smiling as he gazed calmly at his prisoners. "You boys look like some kind of guv'ment to me. That what you are, eh? Workin' 'gainst yo' fellow Oompa-Loompas…tinkin' de big bosses gon' reward you for rattin' out yo' kin?"

The Captain cleared his throat. "Sir, we mean you no harm. We…"

"You gon' speak when I tell you to!" the other said, his gold-plated sidearm whipping up to aim directly at the Captain's forehead. SC-80 did not flinch. The other grinned. "Well, he's a brave bastahd, I give 'im dat much. Wot you tink?" he turned to his associate.

"I nevah seen uniforms like dem deah, boss. Maybe dey some kind o' Resistance."

The other snorted. "Rebels don' wear de colors in broa' daylight, mon! Not if they wanna live, anyway. No, dey somethin' else. Maybe our ol' friends downtown tryin' to butt in on our oprashuns again."

"Sir," SC-80 tried again. "We are travelers. We came here hoping to find help. If we were here to harm you, why would only one of us be armed? We have no reason to interfere in your business dealings…truthfully, we don't even know what it is you do."

The other's eyes narrowed, and he reached over to pick up the small glass plate with its heap of white powder. He placed it front and center on the desk. "You mean to tell me you don' know nuttin' 'bout dis heah, uh? You don' know what dis is?"

"Powdered sugar?" The terrified RA-48 blurted. Instantly, all of the armed Oompa-Loompas burst into raucous laughter.

The man behind the desk gestured with his golden gun, which the Captain now recognized as a Loompa-scale Colt 1911. "Taste it, mon." RA-48 reached a trembling hand forward and gently touched his finger to the top of the pile; pulling it back to his mouth, he grimaced.

"It's stale or something!" he said, drawing renewed howls from the captors.

RP-18 squinted at the Loompa behind the desk. "Sir, if you've just introduced my associate to a toxic substance, I assure you the consequences will be grave."

The other ignored him, staring around at the prisoners. "You really don' know what dis is, do you?!" His voice had gone up an octave in disbelief. He looked at RA-48. "You really tink dis heah is powder shugah?"

"What is it then?" RA-48 said helplessly.

"Dis heah ain' no powdered shugah, mon. Dis heah is de _cocaine_ …de good shit, straigh' from Loompaland. Whole country is one big coca field dese days."

"You're using our homeland to grow drugs?" IP-77's shock and anger were evident in his voice.

"Mon, what de hell else you wan' do wit it, eh?" The drug dealer laughed. "Once de Big Empire done burn down all de forests and take away all de people as slaves, deah ain' nuttin' left!"

RP-18 spoke then, his tone genuinely horrified. "Did you say Oompa-Loompas are being taken as _slaves_?!"

The drug dealer slumped back in his chair, his look of amusement now turning to one of plain disbelief. He and several of his associates conversed rapidly, this time in atrociously-accented Loompanese; even thought he was fluent, the Captain could distinguish nothing of what they said. Finally, they switched back to English.

"You right, boss. Dey craz' or somethin'."

The expression on the drug dealer's face was no longer remotely amused.

"I don' know what de hell dese fellahs tink de doin'…but I don' cahe. Dey' bringin' guns into my place o' bis'ness, and dot's all I need to know." The drug dealer gestured. "I don' wan' dem talkin'."

The Loompa beside the desk turned to look at his boss again. "Crowley and dem know we heah already."

The dealer snorted. "And if dese fools go talkin' and word done spread, den de big bosses gonna put pressure on Crowley to shut us down. You tink he gonna have a second thought, eh?" He gestured with his golden gun. "Now take dese bastahds down to de rivah and put dem out o' my mis'ry."

There was only one way to interpret what the dealer said, and instantly members of the gang moved in on the five crewmen. "Please, sir!" the Captain said, "You don't understand!" But it was too late. Several members of the gang stepped in and grabbed for the prisoners. The Captain lunged forward, thinking to seize the blaster pistol from the drug dealer's desk…guns were coming up on all sides of him…but then something else happened, something which none of the figures in the room expected. A voice crackled through a walkie-talkie sitting on the dealer's desk, the single word "Boss!" followed by a crackle of static and the sounds of a loud struggle in the hallway outside the apartment. Several of the gang members started to turn, alarmed at this new noise…the dealer was bringing his gun to bear on the Captain's head when the door exploded off its hinges.

Something black and round hurtled into the room and rolled to a stop in the middle of the assembled criminals; the entire Wonka contingent knew what it must be, and so threw themselves to the floor with eyes closed and hands clenched tight over ears. The drug dealer fired, missing the Captain, who likewise threw himself to the rough wooden floor…there was a tremendous report, a blinding flash, and figures collapsed in pain and disorientation. The Captain turned his head to see an enormous figure shouldering its way through the door, its features completely obscured by a gas mask and heavy riot armor which bore the word "POLICE" across the front in thick block letters. More armored men were coming close behind, their own shotguns looking like howitzers beside the weapons of the Oompa-Loompa criminals. One of the henchmen fired a shot and the lead policeman answered it, his shotgun blasting the Oompa-Loompa to bloody pieces. The rest of the gang threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees, hands on their heads.

The Captain and his crew sat up but did not bother to rise from the floor, RA-48 staring in horror at the splattered form of the hapless criminal. The only one not on his knees was the drug dealer himself, who still stood atop his desk, his weapon not quite pointed in the direction of the officers. "DROP IT!" one of the policemen snarled, shotgun trained on the drug dealer's defiant face. At that moment, however, a new man entered the room; he was dressed in full combat gear but lacked a gas mask, revealing a pale, clean-shaven face. Instantly, the dealer's hard expression split into an oily grin; he lowered the gold-plated Colt and allowed it to drop onto the desk, holding his arms out in a gesture that suggested he was about to embrace the newcomer.

"Crowley, my mon! How you doin'? I hope you ain' heah for yo' money, 'cause I don' have none. I have it fo' you next week, like alway'."

"Awolowa Mugabe," the newcomer said, obviously the officer in charge, "you are under arrest for distribution of illicit substances." He turned, pale blue eyes imperiously regarding the Oompa-Loompas cowering on the floor before him.

The dealer stared at him, still smiling. "Crowley, you know I hate jokes. What de hell is dis?"

The other's voice remained cold. "The daughter of a prominent Party member nearly died after overdosing on your _product_. This is the end of your business, I'm afraid. Take him."

The drug dealer's expression contorted with anger. "We had a deal, mon! It ain' my fault if some rich bitch don' know how to cut her portions right! You can' do dis to me!" He snatched his arm away as the first of the policemen tried to grab him, his eyes shooting furiously to the pistol now lying out of reach beside his feet. "You son of a bitch!" he snarled as he was seized, two officers forced to physically pick him up and carry him from the room. He continued shouting as he was taken outside and carried down the stairs. "Crowley, we can make a new deal, eh! YOU THROWIN' AWAY A LOT O' MONEY, MON! DON' BE A FOOL!" At a gesture from Crowley, the rest of the dealer's gang was herded from the room, the remaining criminals obediently following their restrained leader. This left only the crew of Deepstar Five, all of whom uncertainly rose to their feet. The man beside Crowley removed his gas mask, sharing his commander's interested stare.

"What the hell are they?"

Crowley shook his head. "Those uniforms don't look like anything I've seen before. Camps must have changed things up again."

"Think they escaped?"

Crowley glanced over at him. "Where the hell else would they have come from? Rebels don't walk around in uniform. If I had to guess…"

Another man suddenly appeared at Crowley's shoulder, pulling off his gas mask as he held out a field radio. "Sir, alert from Central."

Crowley took the radio and listened intently for perhaps fifteen seconds. He said "Yes, sir" once and then handed the radio back to his subordinate, staring at the Deepstar crew with frank curiosity.

"Can I ask what that was about?" the officer at Crowley's side asked.

"Persons of interest," Crowley replied. "Oompa-Loompas, no less." Ice fell into SC-80's stomach. _Oh, well…too late to run now._

"Them?"

"Possible."

"They can't be Resistance, at least not all of them," the other said. He pointed to RA-48 and RP-18. "Those two are obviously civilians."

"I don't think we're looking for Resistance, to be honest." Crowley's eyes narrowed as he addressed the Oompa-Loompas for the first time. "You. Which one of you is in charge?"

SC-80 stepped forward calmly, fighting off a brief instant of apprehension. There was little point in deception; if interrogated, even his basic speech and mannerisms would quickly reveal him as the leader. Ignoring a pointed glance from IP-77, he spoke. "I am. SC-80, rank Captain." He expected Crowley to ask further questions, but there was only one. The officer gestured, and IP-101 was shoved roughly into the room.

"One of yours?"

"Yes." SC-80 said calmly. He glanced over at 101, who looked back at him miserably.

"I'm sorry, sir. There were too many of them. I never had a chance."

"Not your fault, 101."

"He was carrying this, sir," one of the policemen said, handing 101's blaster to Crowley; the officer looked down at it with interest, testing the weight of the gun's polymer frame.

"Thank you." Crowley looked over at the man beside him, apparently his second-in-command. "Change of plan. Take the officer and put him on a chopper to London, along with this." He handed the other man the blaster. "The rest of them will follow on the train. Let's move it out!" Crowley turned and marched from the room, the circle of black-armored police closing in menacingly…the crew of Deepstar Five tried to fight, but to no avail. The Oompa-Loompas were marched from the apartment and down the stairs, following the drug dealer and his gang. Just before they reached the door to the courtyard, there was sudden movement from the side, and the world disappeared as black bags came down over the prisoners' heads.

Though they were unable to see, there was no doubt as to what was happening. The five Oompa-Loompas first had their hands tied and were then marched into the street, stumbling off the curb in the process, and hoisted roughly into the back of a truck. They drove for at least twenty minutes, the hard wooden benches and stiff suspension making the ride extremely uncomfortable…finally, sounds of other traffic began to filter in from outside and the truck slowed before stopping entirely. The tailgate dropped and a voice said, "That one there;" it might have been Crowley, but it was difficult to tell. The Captain was hoisted to his feet and managed the words "Whatever happens…" before a rifle stock smashed into his gut and his sentence ended in a wheeze. Still blind and unable to use their hands, the other Oompa-Loompas could do nothing to help him; IP-77 swore in rage and started to rise, only to be brutally thrown back against the side of the truck. While he continued to curse, it was already too late. The Captain was thrown unceremoniously into the arms of the waiting guards; the tailgate closed again, and the truck started to move, taking the remaining four prisoners away without their leader.


	11. Harsh Realities, Part 4

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

* * *

 _New Buckingham Palace, London_

Empress Veruca Salt…or rather her first duplicate, replacing the original that had been murdered yesterday…was having an absolutely delightful dream when she first became aware of a tapping sound in the background of her subconscious. Ignoring it, she fought to stay asleep; only the insistent tapping continued in short, regular bursts. Eventually, the Empress could fight it no longer and awoke. It was still early, light just now seeping through the curtains…this was why she preferred her country estate, where the servants knew better than to trouble her for every little thing. But, of course, she had been compelled to return to London after the army had brought in the man they had spent the last decade searching for…and now she was paying the price for it. She pulled a pillow over her head, hoping that whoever was knocking at her door would finally decide it was not worth the trouble and go away. But the knocking continued, now increasing in volume…Veruca threw several objects of increasing size and weight at the door, but even that did not dissuade whoever was in the corridor outside. Finally, she leapt out of bed, flounced across the room in an absolute fury, and threw open the door. "WHAT?!"

The messenger quailed for an instant and then quickly started to explain himself, his voice rapid and excited. He was a young and enthusiastic soldier, clearly a new recruit to the Palace Guard, and…now that Veruca looked at him properly…handsome in a boyish way. She was just contemplating what he might look like undressed when a select phrase caught her attention. "I'm sorry," she said sweetly, "what was that?"

"I said that Mr. Black has requested an audience immediately, Your Majesty, due to an urgent matter of national security."

Veruca sighed. "Very well." She emerged fully from her chamber and closed the door, smiling at the young man. "Lead on, sir knight."

In spite of himself, the soldier's eyes flicked up and down Veruca's body…not because of what she looked like, but because she was wearing nothing but a silk nightgown. "Are…are you going in that, My Lady?"

Veruca dropped her chin coquettishly, her eyes widening in innocence. "Shouldn't I?" The guard shrugged and led the way, finally stopping at the door to the video conferencing room.

"In here, please, Your Majesty."

He opened the door, and Veruca gave him her best smile. "Wait here for me, will you? I hate walking around this place by myself."

Forgetting all formality, the soldier blushed and grinned. "Of course, Your Highness."

Veruca entered the dark room and took a seat at one end of an enormous oval-shaped table; the room was the size of a small cinema, with three screens placed in a wraparound arrangement at the far end of the room. All three were lit, each showing a different individual from roughly the waist up. The center screen was occupied by the impassive Mr. Black, head of intelligence…whose real name was never spoken…a muscular man in a dark suit, his face scarred from the grenade explosion that had cost him one of his eyes. The replacement was a robotic implant, a glaring red lens that seemed to burn with some internal fire. A more natural replacement had been available, but Mr. Black liked his eye the way it was. The left screen showed Mike Teavee, Minister of Information, a pale, gaunt figure with thinning hair and a gaze that seemed capable of penetrating steel. His height was not evident on the screen, but in person he was slightly over seven feet tall, the result of a run-in with a Wonka Company taffy puller in his youth. He was dressed, as ever, in a monastic black tunic and wire-rimmed spectacles. This left only General Augustus Gloop, who occupied nearly the entirety of the right screen without a bit of background to spare. To say that he was fat would be an understatement…only the top button of his dress uniform was actually fastened under his chin, everything below that a vast expanse of gray undershirt that hid his enormous belly. And even this was not entirely sufficient, for the lowest part of his stomach still stuck out. His blond hair, blue eyes, and pudgy cheeks created the impression of an enormously overgrown baby, an impression only furthered by the fact that he was too fat to walk on his own for any distance, instead using an enormous hoverchair to move around at his leisure.

With the Empress present, the council could begin. "Your Majesty," Mr. Black began, "I apologize for waking you, but we have a situation."

"That's quite all right," Veruca said, her tone making it evident that it would _be_ all right only if Mr. Black had something of astounding magnitude to say.

The intelligence chief smiled slightly, rising to the challenge. "Just after oh-two-hundred hours this morning, a vehicle of unknown origin _appeared_ directly over Chadworth Industries' new lunar development, overrunning the security perimeter less than thirty seconds after being detected. Chadworth security craft attempted to board the intruder, at which point it performed a series of evasive maneuvers, first using the lunar construction as cover before turning for Earth. While the pursuit vessels were forced to break off in the upper atmosphere, one of them…identified as Fox Niner Echo…managed to successfully tag the intruder with a smart missile just before losing contact with the target. The unidentified vessel subsequently entered an irregular reentry path and crashed 75 kilometers northwest of London."

The sour look on the Empress's face was unmistakable. "Mr. Black, while I usually appreciate your sense of humor, you're about ten seconds from death. Is this a joke?"

"Tell me yourself, Your Majesty." Unfazed by the threat, Mr. Black reached over and pressed a button, and his screen switched to show a high-resolution image of the ruined Deepstar Five, lying on her side in the swamp.

Veruca's peeved expression changed to one of stunned disbelief. "Before you continue…please tell me you're not going to say anything about aliens."

Mr. Black's face reappeared, even grimmer than it had been a moment before. "It might be better if I did. General Gloop, if you please."

"Ze craft is obviously of Earth origin," Gloop said, his strong Prussian accent moderated by his years in England. "Ze controls vere clearly designed vith humans in mind, though zey are much smaller." He paused, looking extremely uncomfortable…Veruca found herself wondering if it might be because of gas, and she nearly giggled at the thought. Gloop continued. "Zere can be little doubt…ze craft vos built for Oompa-Loompas. Everysing vos labeled clearly in both English and Loompanese. And zere vos one body aboard…" Gloop did something on his end and RP-46, still encased in his spacesuit, appeared on the screen. Gloop's troubled face reappeared after several seconds, but he said nothing further.

"What about the media?" Veruca asked, her eyes narrowing. "Something like this shouldn't be too difficult to explain away to the public, considering the Chadworth space program."

"Officially speaking, an experimental Chadworth spacecraft suffered a partial engine failure on reentry," Mike Teavee said calmly. "Which is actually the truth…save for the bit about it being a Chadworth creation."

"And you have no idea where this thing came from?" Veruca said.

"We're working on it," Mr. Black replied… _which meant no._

"Resistance?"

"Unlikely," Mr. Black said skeptically, "whoever built this thing, it is extraordinarily advanced. It's being kept at the Chadworth Industries labs for the time being…I've just come from there, and I can authoritatively say that it's beyond the capabilities of the Resistance.

"But you don't know for sure."

Mr. Black paused for a moment. "No, we don't…though I am preparing to redirect the full efforts of the intelligence division to the matter. I assure you, Your Highness…"

"You will not reassign one man until after the execution. That's an _order_."

"Your Majesty, the rebels' commander is being held in one of the most secure facilities on Earth. I don't think that an escape is likely, not with only a week in which to plan it. Our security has been tripled. I give you my word the General cannot escape."

"One week is still a week too long. Every second that he is alive is a personal insult to myself and to every loyal subject of the British Empire! I am moving up the execution."

The subject of the conversation had changed, and now Gloop and Teavee were simply spectators. Black paused for a moment. "When did you have in mind, Your Majesty?"

Veruca smiled nastily. "Today. I want him hung at three o'clock on public television, and I want his body to have top billing on the evening news."

" _Today?_ Your Highness, the General still needs to be interrogated! Battle plans, strategies…"

"I don't _want_ information! You can capture all the other rebels you like and torture them as much as you wish! But _he_ is the pin that holds the Resistance together! I don't care what he knows…we will find it out when we wring it from his subordinates! But I want him _dead! Today!_ "

Even though his voice occasionally changed tone, Black's impassive face never altered its expression by more than the slightest of degrees. And this case was no different. He sat for a moment, considering, and then performed a respectful bow of his head. "Very well, Your Majesty. I shall send word. The arrangements will be ready by three."

"Very well," Veruca said imperiously. "Good day, gentlemen." The three screens flicked off, and the lights in the room slowly brightened. The Empress reached over to the intercom button. "I want Violet up here now."

"Yes, Your Highness," a voice said from the other end. Veruca sat back in her chair, even the short delay making her impatient. Now that she had ordered the General's execution, every second that passed before three o'clock seemed like an eternity. _I want him dead. I want him dead and burned, his ashes tossed out like garbage. I don't want there to be a single trace left, no place where anyone can go to mourn his passing…_

The door opened without introduction, breaking the Empress's chain of thought. Another woman entered the room, and her appearance was truly astonishing. Every bit of exposed skin was a deep, purplish blue…as was her close-cropped hair…the results of an encounter with a particular piece of Wonka chewing gum. Not that she had been able to chew gum in a long while…the woman's entire lower jaw was replaced by a heavy piece of rust-colored metal, a crude experimental prosthesis that she had never allowed replaced. She wished to remember her wound, and she considered any attempts to repair her ruined face a waste of time. That had been another piece of chewing gum, this one laced with plastic explosive…an assassination attempt that had very nearly succeeded. The woman stopped and stood at attention, her posture alert without being rigid. If someone had come through the door behind her, she could have killed them before they realized she had moved. Veruca smiled. "Violet, love, be a good girl and run along to the Tower, won't you? I want you there for the good General's end…make sure that nothing goes wrong." Her voice grew dangerous on the last few words.

The assassin respectfully bowed her head, her voice a grating electronic rasp generated by the speaker grille attached to her throat. "It will be my pleasure, My Lady."


	12. Harsh Realities, Part 5

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

* * *

 _Unidentified city, England_

Once SC-80 left the truck, it was impossible to tell where he was. He was more carried than led, dragged roughly up some steps and then along a smooth surface that felt like tile. There was a drop in his stomach that could only have been caused by an elevator, then a door hissed open and the temperature dropped sharply. A cold wind whipped at the bag over his head, and he could hear the unmistakable sound of a helicopter powering up nearby. He was manhandled aboard, banging his shin on the lower edge of the door; handcuffed to a seat, he could do nothing as the aircraft throttled up.

Exhausted, he faded out for a time…he had no idea how long he was asleep, but he also knew that the journey to London could not have lasted long. The aircraft descended; the doors opened; he was dragged through another series of twists and turns, dropped down another elevator, and then brought to a sharp, sudden halt. A vague electronic hum started in the background, something that he could not identify. "Hands out," a voice commanded; the Captain obliged, and his restraints were swiftly removed. A hand pushed him backward firmly but not forcefully enough to knock him off his feet; retreating footsteps marked the guard's departure, but there was no clang of a cell door. The Captain reached up and ripped the bag free from his head, standing blind in the sudden flare of illumination which washed over him. He closed his eyes and opened them again, his vision clearing. He found himself facing the inside of a small cell, the room sized for a human occupant but with a Loompa-sized bunk and toilet. The shape of the space was unusual, the cell long but very narrow, almost more of an alcove in the wall. He instantly identified the source of the buzzing, as well as the reason why he had been pushed backward after his cuffs had been removed…and why there was no sound of a door. The entire wall of the cell was open, his exit to the corridor blocked by a series of crimson beams across the opening. There was space to reach between them, certainly, as he had undoubtedly been doing when he had held out his hands to the guard…there was no possibility, however, of trying to slip between them. SC-80 glanced around his cell, looking for any alternate ways out, but there was not so much as an air vent.

He moved as close to the beams as he dared, looking both ways down the corridor; there were other cells, but they all appeared to be empty save for the one directly across from him. In it, a man lay on the bunk, his back to SC-80…the Captain could not tell much about him, save for the fact that he wore some kind of uniform. The Captain shook his head. _Whoever runs this place could learn a thing or two about security; you don't put the only two prisoners where they can easily talk to each other._ His heart sank slightly. _Unless you're so sure they can't escape you aren't worried about it_. He banished the thought. There had to be a way out of here. The Captain slowly reached a hand toward the laser bars, feeling for any heat or crackle of energy discharge. An insane thought crossed his mind: _Perhaps the bars don't really do anything. Maybe they frighten a prisoner into staying in his cell, when he could simply walk away free down the corridor. Maybe it's all a mind game, and the horrible truth is that the only thing which keeps you imprisoned is your own fear…_

"I assure you, they're quite real," a voice said, and SC-80 leapt in shock. Deep in his musing, he had not noticed how close he had moved his hand to the bars, and now he snatched it away as if burned. He looked up at the man in the cell opposite; the other was now sitting up on his bunk, gazing calmly across at the smaller prisoner. The other man's serene expression did not waver. "I know what you're thinking…I thought the same thing myself, the first time I saw the inside of one of these containment cells. I thought maybe it was all a game…the cruel irony of me keeping _myself_ in prison. But the bars _do_ work, trust me. I found out the hard way." He smiled and raised his left hand; the ring and little fingers were both cut short at a diagonal angle. "The price of escape," the man said, and lowered his hand. SC-80 sized up his fellow inmate, for the other cut an interesting figure. He was not young, in his late fifties or early sixties, but he still bore the unmistakable bearing of a soldier, a fighter. Battle scars crisscrossed his rugged, clean-shaven face…and even as he slouched on his bunk, his shoulders remained perfectly square. His iron gray hair was cropped short, and his eyes were at once confident, strong, and deeply sad…this was a man who had seen, and suffered, much. He was not physically large…not particularly tall, muscular without being stocky…but nonetheless he exuded an air of authority. SC-80 was curious.

"What is this place?"

"This, my friend," the other said, "is the Tower of London. Well, not _the_ Tower of London, of course…the original didn't survive the War. But it's value as a symbol did, and so they built this. Granted, the prison area doesn't exactly give a good sense of its architecture; from in here, it could be any imperial prison anywhere in the world."

"I wouldn't know."

"Well, consider yourself fortunate." The other cocked his head a bit to one side, his eyes narrowing slightly. "There is one thing that I wonder about, though…your uniform. I've never seen one quite like that before, and I've seen most. Are you with the American Resistance?"

"No," SC-80 said, wondering at another mention of the mysterious Resistance. "Truth be told, I'm not any kind of Resistance at all."

"Are you with them?" The older man indicated unseen inhabitants of the building with a tilt of his head.

"No."

"Well then you're Resistance." The other chuckled, and SC-80 smiled slowly. "How did you get in here, anyway?"

"My plane was shot down…my men and I escaped the crash, but they picked us up later." SC-80 could have said _spacecraft_ instead of _plane_ , but he did not intend to bring up that particular complication just yet. Besides, he had no idea who else might have been listening. "And what of yourself, sir?"

The other grinned. "You actually managed that with a straight face. I'm impressed." SC-80 stood, nonplussed. The older man's grin faded. "You were joking, yes?" SC-80 shook his head slowly, his expression both serious and uncomprehending. The other man stood up and stared straight into his face. "Look at me. You mean to say you've never seen my face before?"

SC-80 stared hard…to his bafflement, something about the man's face _did_ seem the tiniest bit familiar… _like something from a history lesson,_ the Captain thought. But no matter how he wracked his brain, wondering if he might have stumbled upon some famous personage from his own time, he came up with nothing. He shook his head. "I apologize, sir, but I'm certain I've never seen you in my life before."

"Not on the television? Not anywhere?!" The other's voice rose an octave in disbelief, and SC-80 felt uncomfortably baffled as he shook his head. _Maybe this guy's off his rocker._ The older man stared wonderingly and sat back on his bunk. "Well, that is strange. And here I thought there wasn't anyone on Earth who probably hadn't seen my ugly mug pasted _someplace_." He grinned again. "My face is on every television screen and wanted poster from Hong Kong to Timbuktu, my friend. I'm the most dangerous man in the world…Public Enemy Number One. I'm General Bucket."


	13. Escape, Part 1

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

 **Author's Note** : Thanks to reader _Spacetea_ for the encouraging comments. We're glad you are enjoying the story! Stay tuned for further developments!

* * *

Another ten or fifteen minutes passed, none of the crewmembers of Deepstar Five speaking, and then the truck stopped a second time. The tailgate was opened and the guards seated beside the prisoners hoisted them to their feet and down off the back of the truck into the hands of other security officers; there was a cry of alarm and a sickening thud that could only have been the Doctor falling off the truck, but none of the other could see him to assist. Someone growled "Come on, midgets!" and the prisoners were shoved forward. Something opened ahead with a squeal of rusted metal, and IP-101 sensed instinctively that they were being marched into a structure of some kind. The prisoners were suddenly forced down onto their knees, the bonds tying their hands were cut, and the black hoods were removed. IP-101 found himself kneeling on hard, cold cement, his three remaining compatriots beside him. He looked back to see five or six guards withdrawing behind a heavy metal gate, which they closed and locked securely behind them. The four Oompa-Loompas were in a sort of corridor made of steel bars, which stretched away to an open area ahead; some distance above was an arched glass ceiling rather like that of a greenhouse or conservatory. Crowley had said to put the prisoners "on the train"…this, then, was surely a railway station. The four stood, only for the Doctor to stumble and catch the bars of the wall to keep himself from falling. "Dumb bastard dropped me off the tailgate," he said. "I twisted my knee and ankle real good on landing." IP-77 simply nodded and loaned RP-18 a shoulder as the four moved forward to see where exactly it was that they had found themselves.

True to 101's belief, it was a railway terminal, in which a massive sort of cage had been erected to completely enclose the boarding platforms. Dozens of bench seats lined the walls and stood in open islands in the center of the space...many of them were filled, by a mixture of both Oompa-Loompas and ordinary humans. The crew of Deepstar Five had never seen a more dejected lot of people: most of them were dressed in threadbare clothing, eyes either staring blankly at the floor or else flicking fearfully about the chamber as if they expected to be shot at any moment. Many of the Oompa-Loompas were chained together at the ankle and dressed in identical uniforms, most of which were filthy and tattered…the Deepstar crew looked at each other, all of them remembering what Mugabe had said about their people being used as slaves. Above the chain-link that served as a ceiling for the prisoner cage, a number of intersecting catwalks crisscrossed above the enclosure, allowing the guards full coverage of the space. Two men with rifles were stationed above, one of them standing idly at a corner while he enjoyed a cigarette. It was obvious that escape was not of major concern here. IP-77 scanned the room, trying to find a suitable bank of unoccupied seats; while only about half of the places to sit were actually filled, most of the prisoners had spaced themselves out across the room. Finding four chairs together would be a good trick…

"Let's go over there," 77 said, pointing to an empty corner where there was indeed a group of a half-dozen unoccupied seats. Helping the Doctor along, 77 settled himself next to the physicist, who stretched his injured leg out on the neighboring chair with a groan. 101 seated himself beside 77; with the places in the corner taken, RA-48 sat down in a vacant spot at a seating island in the immediate area, facing his compatriots.

The research assistant's question came in less than three seconds: "What are we going to do?"

IP-77 snorted. "Well, we have to get out of here first. We may be able to get out when they try to put us on the train, but that will be about our only chance."

"That's assuming we want to get out," RP-18 replied calmly. "The man back at the apartment, the officer, said that we would be following the Captain to London. If that's where he is, we might be better served by closing the distance before we try any kind of breakout. Of course, security might be improved at the other end."

"I think pretty much any security would be better than that which we've got here…not that I'm complaining, of course," IP-101 added, looking up to where the two guards were cheerfully conversing with complete disregard for anything that might be going on in the room below.

"I'm going to go with 101, Doc," 77 said. "I agree that we have to get London as fast as possible, but we can't count on incompetent guards twice. We have to use our advantage while we've got it. One question: can you move quick if you have to?"

The Doctor reached down and gingerly massaged his knee. "I'll certainly give it my best effort. I don't think there's any real damage, just discomfort. It'll hurt, but I can move."

77 nodded. "All right. 48, how you holding up?"

"Just fine. Better once we get out of here."

"Good. Now, obviously we're going to need some kind of diversion…"

Busy on their planning, none of the crew of Deepstar Five noticed when a new figure entered the area…he had actually been in the prison enclosure the entire time, but they had not seen him for an obvious reason. At the far end of the area were four portable toilets, two of them Loompa-sized…it was from one of these that he emerged and now made a beeline straight for the four figures in dirty uniforms seated in the corner. And they remained oblivious to his presence until he spoke.

"Oy, peaches! You wanna get out o' my seat?" 48 looked up in alarm at the Oompa-Loompa standing over him, the other's face set in a menacing glare. The two pilots and the Doctor sat back in their chairs and considered the newcomer…his appearance was eccentric, even in comparison to the drug dealer and his henchmen. This particular Oompa-Loompa wore a black leather jacket over black jeans and a dark T-shirt, which proudly advertised some heavy metal band that none of the Deepstar crewmen had ever heard of; several lengths of chain hung from his belt loops, metal studs dotted the shoulders of his jacket, a gold earring adorned one ear, and heavy black motorcycle boots decorated with more studs covered both feet. His face was fairly young but hard and heavily worn…and to top the entire package off, his hair had been combed up into a flame-red mohawk, the rest of his head shaved except for the single crest down the center. He grinned at the dumbstruck 48. "Tell me, mate, are you hard of hearing or just plain dumb?"

"I'd advise you to watch your tone, sir," RP-18 said, his voice dangerous.

"Or what, Pops? Going to get up and beat me with your gamey leg?"

48 pointed. "Excuse me, sir, but there are empty seats right there and over there. Why don't you sit in one of them?"

"Because those aren't _my_ seat. _You're_ in _my_ seat, cupcake. And I advise you to get the hell out of it."

77 sighed. "He's not going to go away, 48. You know what to do."

RA-48 looked at his compatriots helplessly and then stood up. "I beg your pardon, sir, but this is my seat."

The punk leaned in close and grinned. "We'll just see about that." He grabbed for the front of 48's tunic, but the research assistant was too quick. After the various crises that had rocked the Wonka Company, it had been deemed prudent for basic self-defense techniques to be made a standard part of clone conditioning. The punk's hand was instantly seized, and he rapidly found himself turned around with his arm pinned at an awkward angle behind his back. 48 pressed upward, straining the punk's shoulder, and the other Oompa-Loompa's body automatically bent forward in response to the pain. "Okay, OKAY!"

"Going to behave?" 101 asked dryly, and the other nodded. 48 released him.

The punk reached up to massage his shoulder. "Cripes! Didn't know you were gonna pull a kung fu death grip. When people know that kind of thing, I just hang back and find a gun." 48 sat down again, his point made…far from leaving, however, the punk flopped down in the seat immediately beside him. All of the Deepstar crew looked at each other. The punk grimaced and rubbed his shoulder again. "That was some kind of grip, too…you must have training of some kind, and you're all dressed identical-like. Are you military, Resistance or something like that?"

"Something like that," 77 replied.

The punk grinned and clapped 48 on the shoulder. "Sorry about the bully routine, mate. You get so used to putting on an act that sometimes you forget it's an act. In my own defense, though, I saw these uniforms and thought you blokes was runaways from the camps."

"Camps?" 101 said…though he was thinking of the drug dealer's mention of slaves as he did so.

"Labor camps, mate! Where they send all the bad little girls and boys…or at least that's what the TV says. They got labor camps for Big Folk and labor camps for us; got to keep the prisoners separate so they can't all team up and work together to get the hell out. Anyway, runaways tend to be the nastiest bunch you could ever dream up, at least the ones what end up in here. Anyone with any kind o' self-respect escapes the camps and joins the Resistance. But these here…" the punk gestured to one of the groups of chained Oompa-Loompas "…these buggers are the cowards who just run and don't look back. They fish them out from landfills and the like…filthy scavengers, they are, and I do _mean_ filthy. Oompa-Loompas these days is terrible people, mate, and I say that even bein' one of 'em." The punk jerked his chin upward, indicating the guards above on the catwalk. "Those fellows up there don't even need bullets in their guns…they have them, I'm sure, but they wouldn't need 'em. They don't have to oppress us. They just make us afraid, and we oppress each other. Everyone afraid of his own neighbor, everyone selling out someone else to try and get something for themselves…I'm sorry, I'm just rambling on. Point is you're military, so you're all right. And while I'm talking about others being rude, here I'm doing it myself. Call me Jonesy." He extended a meaty hand and shook each of the others' amiably.

"I'm IP-77," 77 said. "This is IP-101, RP-18, and of course RA-48…the one whose seat you tried to steal."

Jonesy grinned abashedly, and then promptly looked confused. "Those names…that like a secret code or something, conceal your identity?"

"Sort of."

The other looked as if he was going to pursue the naming question further, so 101 politely interrupted. "What about you? Jonesy…that's short for something, yes?"

The other glanced around conspiratorially and lowered his voice. "Yeah. Now no one knows my real name, so don't go spreading it around, all right? Winston Churchill Jonungala. That's what I'm really called, and it's what happens when your parents try to express their pride at being British and their pride at being native Oompa-Loompas all at the same time. I could live with the 'Winston Churchill' or the 'Jonungala,' but together it's a bit much."

"And what exactly do you _do_?" RP-18 asked, legitimately curious at this strange figure. "For that matter, how precisely did you get in here?"

"Well…" Jonesy started to say, but at that moment a loud buzzer sounded in the enclosure.

"What's that?" 48 asked in alarm.

"Train's here," Jonesy replied.

77 glanced around at his fellows, and then at the other. "We're about to break out of here…you're welcome to join us, if you like."

Jonesy shook his head. "Bad idea, mate. We're right between the local police HQ and an army base. You won't get far. You'd be better off waiting until we get to London."

"Where exactly does this train go?"

"Central Processing. Handles prisoners from all over the country. It's big enough we can slip out real quiet…I even got a friend or two what might be able to help us." The train was pulling into the station, pulling a long row of cars that looked more suited to hauling cattle than prisoners. The inhabitants of the caged enclosure were now mostly on their feet, shuffling obediently toward the gate that would let them out onto the narrow strip of boarding platform beside the tracks. In order to pass through the gate, the prisoners first had to move through a device that looked rather like a sophisticated metal detector…77 swore.

101 looked over at him. "What?"

"I managed to slip my knife into my boot back at the dealer's place. His men didn't get it, and the police didn't bother to check."

"Give it to me," Jonesy said urgently.

"What?"

"You want to get it on the train? I can do it. Move quick…pretend like you're tying your shoe or something."

Shooting a quick glance up at the guards above, 77 slowly knelt and began deliberately fiddling with the front of his right boot, taking the opportunity to remove the knife. Instantly, Jonesy snatched away the blade and it disappeared down the side of his own boot; he had already removed the chain from his belt and stuck it into the opposite shoe. Turning, he gestured to the Deepstar crew and walked forward to join the queue of prisoners at the gate. As the line of prisoners moved forward, the security scanner rooted out dozens of minor pieces of contraband, all of which were taken by another cadre of armed guards stationed at the gate.

It seemed impossible that Jonesy could hope to slip anything past all of them…but he did it just the same. Sauntering easily toward the scanner, he started to stroll through calmly and then promptly backed up as the device let out a series of rapid beeps. "Remove all metal and contraband items," the guard in the booth growled. Jonesy shrugged, took off his metal-studded jacket, and tossed it to one of the other security officers. The man quickly began checking Jonesy's miniscule pockets, and the Oompa-Loompa started through the device again. It sounded a second time, and Jonesy removed his earring. He started through a third time, the device sounded, and Jonesy finally shot a long-suffering glance at the man in the booth. "Really, mate, if you want to get all the metal off o' me, I'm gonna have to strip down to me boxers." The guard continued to glare, obviously unimpressed, and Jonesy started to take off his boots. He stopped, and looked up with a completely straight face. "You know, I usually like to have some manner of musical accompaniment when I'm taking off my clothes in public…you could play that song about 'I'm too sexy for my shirt' or whatever it is. Oh, wait! I'm having a thought here…maybe there's something special you want me to wear, like British flag knickers or something like that. I mean, it's really up to you…whatever turns you on, I suppose." By now several of the security officers were struggling to keep straight faces, and the booth guard's face was crimson with barely suppressed fury. Jonesy, naturally, kept going. "Oh, or if you really want to go for the all-out sexy, get me some Jell-O and I'll smear it all over myself while…" Several of the guards burst out laughing, and the officer in the booth roared.

"Shut up and get on the train, damn you!" Jonesy shrugged, took his jacket back from the guard, pulled up the sides of his T-shirt in a curtsey, and walked through the madly beeping security scanner.

He grinned as the Deepstar crew caught up to him. "I've got two strategies, gents…both of which work. When you can, buy people off. When you can't, just annoy the hell out of them."

The train was every bit as unpleasant as it promised to be. Like the railway station, the seats here were all hard wooden benches, which gradually filled as more prisoners filed in; the guards decided that the car was sufficiently full at about two-thirds capacity, and then the heavy door slid shut, leaving only the dim light that filtered in from the vents set into the upper sides of the conveyance. A smaller door opened further ahead and two guards entered, sequestered inside a steel and Plexiglas enclosure that spanned one end of the railroad car; both men carried shotguns, and a firing slot in the Plexiglas allowed them to hit any point in the car with their weapons. _Not that these two were in imminent danger of shooting anyone_ …one guard plopped down in a padded seat, flicked on a set of lamps, and promptly pulled out a dirty magazine. Within five minutes, the train ground into motion, and the light filtering in from outside brightened. Between the noise of the train and the muttering of the other prisoners, there was little risk that the Deepstar crew and their newfound friend would be overheard; Jonesy quickly familiarized them with the layout of the London Central Processing Station, and a plan was rapidly devised. Then there was nothing to do but wait.


	14. Escape, Part 2

_London, the Tower_

The other prisoner's last name was like a catalyst to SC-80's curiosity. He did not know of many people with the last name Bucket, save of course for the heir to the company…he longed to ask the question that was gnawing at him, only he feared the consequences. After a brief moment of wrestling with himself, he finally decided that he would ask the thing that he so longed to…at worst, the General might think him crazy. _But considering that we're locked in here, both about to be interrogated and quite possibly shot, leaving a bad impression hardly matters._ "You wouldn't be related to a _Charlie_ Bucket, would you?"

Instantly, the General's smile froze, and SC-80 knew that he had hit upon something. The older man's eyes narrowed sharply. "You told me you weren't a spy. You didn't lie to me now, did you?"

"No, sir. It's just that your last name is somewhat uncommon…and so naturally I wondered if there was a connection…"

"Charlie was my son. But why the devil are you asking me this? Did you know him?"

"A long time ago," SC-80 said, improvising wildly. "I…I was just a boy, and I found myself in a situation involving a very large and nasty dog. Charlie helped me, probably saved my life, and I never forgot him for it. I wasn't supposed to be outside the Wonka factory…if my parents had found out, they would have killed me. Naturally, Charlie was surprised to meet such a tiny young boy as myself, and I made him promise to keep it a secret."

"That sounds like my Charlie," Bucket said sadly, running a hand through his hair. "Always helping someone in need…always keeping a promise."

"If I may ask, sir, what happened to him?"

Bucket looked down at his hands. "Back when the Party was just getting its start, I'm sure you remember the young hoodlums joining up into 'Youth Brigades' to show their support? Well, one evening a bunch of them cornered a girl…threatening, suggesting she was disloyal to England, saying lewd things and whatnot. Anyway, I don't know whether she was actually in any danger or not, but Charlie certainly thought so. He stepped in and, in the course of the fight, one of the thugs stabbed him. He took them on six against one, can you believe that? He was seventeen."

A chill ran up SC-80's spine. _Charlie Bucket was still dead in this reality, but he had died much younger. What if_ this _is what we changed?_ He stepped a bit closer to the energy bars, feeling genuine sympathy at the older man's pain. "Sir, I don't mean to pry, but I wonder if you will tolerate one more question. Did your son ever find a Golden Ticket?"

Bucket's sorrow disappeared in a roar of harsh laughter. " _That's_ what you want to know, after finding out that he's dead?"

SC-80's expression did not change. "You misjudge me, sir. Lest you forget, I only met him once, and that was one of the things we spoke of. I hinted that I lived in the Wonka factory, and naturally he was fascinated. I knew of the tickets, of course…my parents talked about the contest…and I just wanted to know if Charlie ever got the thing he wanted. I remember how eager he was." SC-80 felt guilt at leading Bucket on, but he also needed to know. The earth-shattering revelation that he was sitting in prison across from Charlie Bucket's _father_ …the father who had gone on to become a part of this Resistance, whatever it was…such an opportunity could not be wasted.

Bucket smiled sadly. "I'm sorry, my friend. I just…you can understand that this is a sensitive subject, I'm sure." SC-80 nodded. Bucket sighed. "No, he never did find one of those damned tickets; if he had, things would have…well, it doesn't matter now. My poor boy…he was always so quiet, so polite…but I knew how desperately he wanted one of those Golden Tickets. It was his only dream, really; we were so poor that he couldn't afford to dream much. All he ever wanted was to see that wonderful factory. And I bought a Wonka bar every time I had money, which wasn't very often…there was never a ticket inside, and I couldn't even give my son the candy afterward because then he would know what I had done and how terrible I felt for him."

SC-80 felt weak. _That's what we changed. Somehow…_ and then he thought again of the ten-pound note sticking out of the snow. _Charlie Bucket was poor. He didn't have pocket money. He would have picked up that cash and he would have purchased the Wonka bar that held the final Golden Ticket…probably at the exact candy shop that we were in. Charlie Bucket is the key. Somehow, changing his destiny sent the entire world to hell._ Astonishment, disbelief, and something like horror crashed over SC-80 in waves; a thousand questions buzzed around in his mind like angry bees. "Are you all right?" General Bucket asked, his voice seeming to come from a thousand miles away. "You don't look well."

"I'm…I'm fine," the Captain said. He looked up and smiled weakly. "It's nothing. I'm sorry that your son never found his Golden Ticket; I…I think that the Fuhr…that Mr. Wonka would have liked to meet him." Pushing aside the troubling information that he had just learned, the Captain decided to dig a bit further. "What about you, sir? How did you become part of the Resistance?"

Bucket shrugged. "There was nothing else to do. I lost my job in the big economic crash, just when it seemed like we Buckets had finally caught a break…you know, I used to be a repairman for this one particular machine that screwed caps onto tubes of toothpaste? Talk about another life…anyway, it wasn't the first time I had lost a job…before that I used to screw the caps on the toothpaste myself, and then the factory laid me off when they bought the machine. I'm getting off the subject. Point is that I lost my job as a repairman and we were as bad off as ever. So what could I do? I joined the Army thinking only to keep a steady stream of checks going home…then the War started, and the rest was history.

My son was murdered while I was away on basic training...all of this was back when the Party was still just a fringe group of nuts, before they took over the military and Parliament…my wife and unborn daughter died while I was stuck out in a muddy field in Poland. And somehow the promotions just kept coming. I made colonel in just a couple of years, if you can believe it. They kept posting me to theaters where all the officers were getting killed…I inherited a series of consecutively larger commands, and then I kept them because there was no one else for the generals to give them to. I had a talent for command, it seemed, which was news to me. Here I was, the great soldier…and I had never even held a gun before I enlisted. Well, things went on; naturally when the Party took charge of the government, I was among the dissenters, who quickly became the rebels. Most of the big generals were already dead by this time, what with the war and everything else. After Childs was assassinated, I was left as the highest-ranking rebel officer. Officially, I'm not a general…I never have been. But after Childs' murder, they put me in as the new supreme commander. The rebellion went underground, and I've been leading it ever since. Now I've been captured, of course, and it won't be but a couple of days before they execute me on live television in front of the entire world."

SC-80 stared. "Considering what's at stake, you don't seem overly upset."

General Bucket only smiled. "I don't give up until the fight is over."


	15. Escape, Part 3

_Great Western Main Line, approximately 30 km west of London_

"So how exactly are you so familiar with the intricacies of the local prison system, Jonesy?" 77 asked, his tone amused.

Jonesy grinned broadly. "Well, you see, it's on account of my business. This marks the third time I've been arrested for stealing cars," he said proudly, and then immediately raised a finger. "Let me put that in some kind of context for you. What I should say is that this is _only_ the third time I've been arrested for stealing cars. When you count the number of cars I've stolen, that's a pretty impressive success-to-failure ratio."

"And just how many cars have you stolen?"

Jonesy sat forward in his seat, pondering. "Well, there was…" he stared up at the ceiling of the railway car as if adding invisible figures, but finally shook his head. "I've got no idea offhand, mate. Enough so that I can't keep count, that's how many. One of me friends owns what the Yanks call a 'chop shop.' But we've got rules…number one is that we only steal from Party members. Like Robin Hood, see? Besides, Party members is the only ones who've got cars worth stealing. So, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: 'Jonesy, if you're such a bloody menace to society, stealin' everything what's not nailed down and gettin' arrested for it time and time again, why aren't you either hung or locked up somewhere you can't get out of?' The answer is simple, mate: no one gives a damn. Conquering the world has made the Party arrogant…they think their system is perfect, and so they don't even entertain ideas that anyone can slip through the cracks. There are only two sentences what magistrates hand down: death and hard labor…and there are far too many people going through the camps for anyone to actually sit down and do all that paperwork. So I get sentenced and put on a train, I get to London and slip out under the fence, and no one really knows the difference. Labor camp knows generally how many people is coming in, but the blokes who do the counting are lazy and always miss a few. Meanwhile, I'm right back on the streets at work. Most people is so terrified of the government that they'd never think of puttin' a toe out of line. It keeps the crime down, yes, but it also means the officials get complacent…so when you _do_ run into a bloke like me, a real criminal and one who don't give a damn, I can get away with just about whatever the hell I want."

"So, anyway, my latest job was this new-model Aston Martin, owned by this old Party member who was always showing the thing off…kind of the automobile equivalent of a trophy wife, right? And I'm paired up with this bloke named Martin. He's going to drive, on account of I'm too short to reach the pedals…I'm there as security specialist, 'cause I know how to get around all the modern computerized protection. Everything's just going great…then one of the night patrols comes up on us. If Martin had kept his damn head, we'd have been fine…we still had Party plates on the thing, o' course…but then Martin panics. So, here I am."

The rest of Jonesy's words were drowned out by a massive explosion and a concussion which shook the car on the rails…the two guards in the booth were both scrambling for their weapons, one of them frantically keying his radio. The train locked its wheels and slid to a halt with an ear-splitting screech, the guards falling against the front wall of the car and prisoners tumbling out of their seats. Helicopters could now be heard approaching; from the sound, it seemed that there must have been dozens. Sharp bursts of rifle fire sounded from outside, followed by the rhythmic thudding of a heavy-caliber weapon and the electric buzz of a chaingun…the two guards at the front of the railroad car were just about to throw open the exit door when the side wall of their booth disintegrated. The two men collapsed in sprays of blood; whatever had killed them had been precisely targeted, and touched nothing outside the booth. The Deepstar crew waited, IP-101 and IP-77 poised just inside the main door of the railroad car, ready to spring upon whoever might open it…if of course they proved to be an enemy. Several bursts of automatic fire stuttered just outside, bullets clattering off the steel side of the car, and then things quieted save for the persistent _whump-whump-whump_ of rotors. There was a screech and clang of metal, the door trembled slightly, and then suddenly the side of the car was thrown open.

A man stood there, dressed in a dark green hunting jacket over which a flak vest had been thrown, his features obscured by a balaclava and ski cap. "You're free!" he shouted to the prisoners, "and you know who we are! Come with us or run for the countryside…it's your choice!" And then, just as quickly, he was gone. Instantly, prisoners began rushing for the door, the Deepstar crew and Jonesy pressing themselves back to avoid the stampede of bodies. They were the last ones out, IP-101 helping the Doctor down from the railroad car.

Men and helicopters were _everywhere_ , all of them bearing the same dark green color scheme. At least twenty choppers were grounded next to the train, their engines idling, while as many gunships still circled in the air above, keeping watch. The troops wore improvised uniforms made up of civilian wilderness gear and military-grade armor, their weapons an eclectic mix of everything from American military to old Soviet arms. There was one universal similarity, however…the insignia painted on every fuselage and stitched on every shoulder patch. It was a white fist, clenched in defiance. "I think we found the Resistance," RP-18 said mildly.

A small number of Resistance fighters were running up and down the length of the train, each of them checking an individual car; word was passed along the line, and one man finally shouted, "He's not here!" A tall black man standing nearby, clearly an officer, swore. He keyed his radio, and the Deepstar crew was close enough to hear. "All units, this is Carver. The General's not on the train…he must already be in London." Carver shouted to the other man. "All the prisoners out?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Right! Let's pack it up! Get everyone who's coming with us onto the transports!" In addition to the soldiers, prisoners were still dashing everywhere. Those who ran for the helicopters were caught by a cordon of Resistance fighters and directed into the open bays of four massive Chinook transports that had set down nearby. Many more prisoners simply sprinted off into the open fields surrounding the railway, some of them not even bothering to get unchained first. The Deepstar crew remained near the train, Jonesy sticking close; IP-77 glanced back at his fellows and then headed toward Carver, his three fellows behind him. Jonesy watched them go, looking from the Resistance helicopters to the open countryside and back. He was clearly weighing his options, and he seemed to be having a difficult time of it. His head swiveled back and forth at least half a dozen times; finally, he shouted "OH, BOLLOCKS!" at the top of his voice and ran after his newfound friends toward the choppers.

IP-77 caught Carver at the side of a UH-60 Black Hawk, just as the officer was about to climb back aboard. "Sir! Excuse me, sir!" Carver turned, 77 shouting to make himself heard over the sound of the rotor blades. "Our commanding officer is being held prisoner in London! We have to find him!"

Another Resistance fighter was approaching, weapon raised in alarm at the figure approaching his commander. Carver held up a hand, and the soldier relaxed. "If the government took enough notice to ship him to London specifically, then there's only one place he could be…the same place we're going! Rest assured that we'll find him! In the meantime, get on the transports and we'll get you out of here!"

"I will not, sir! He's a personal friend of mine! I'm coming with you!"

" _We're_ coming with you!" IP-101 said emphatically, now standing beside 77. "It's a matter of honor!"

"Are you boys Resistance?!"

"No, sir! Private military!"

"How do I know you're not some kind of government plants?!"

IP-77 stared straight into the man's eyes. "You don't."

Carver shrugged and reached into the Black Hawk, pulling out a pair of Loompa-sized MP5 submachine guns. He handed one to IP-101, who promptly climbed into the Black Hawk. IP-77 nodded. "Thank you, sir!" RA-48 and RP-18 started to follow, but 77 stopped them. "It's likely to be rough, Doc! You two should go on the transports!"

"I'll be damned if we're going to split up!" the Doctor replied, heaving himself onto the Black Hawk with 18's help; 77 shrugged and followed. Carver turned and started to step aboard the helicopter…behind him, several troopers reacted in alarm as Jonesy suddenly barreled through their midst and hurled himself into the aircraft as well. Carver's head whipped around, and the panting Jonesy simply pointed at the Deepstar crewmen.

"I'm with them."

A final soldier climbed aboard the helicopter, the doors slid shut, and the chopper throttled up and lifted back into the air. Had all of the passengers been human, the aircraft would already have been close to capacity…with five Oompa-Loompas on board, however, there was still room to spare. Within sixty seconds, the entire fleet of aircraft was off the ground, the four loaded Chinooks and an escorting squadron of gunships splitting off from the main formation and heading south. The bulk of the craft continued east, dozens of helicopters spread out on all sides of the Black Hawk. Carver reached forward and tapped the copilot on the shoulder. "Get on the horn and tell Sakagawa that his jamming signal worked…and that I am hereby ordering him to use the satellite link immediately. I want every scrap of communications across southern England shut down, both military and civilian. I want London completely in the dark for the next three hours…at least…and I don't want any early-warning stations picking us up and letting anyone know that we're coming. Attacking a train is one thing…attacking the planet's capital city is something else."


	16. Escape, Part 4

_UH-60 Black Hawk "Ranger One," headed east over Berkshire_

Aside from IP-77, none of the Deepstar crew had ever been on a helicopter before…and this was anything but a typical ride. The choppers were traveling extremely low and extremely fast, doing their best to stay below enemy radar; this close to the ground, their speed was frighteningly evident. Miles of green countryside whisked past below…and then they saw it. 77 stood up involuntarily to get a better look through the forward windshield, staring at the immense forest of steel and glass spires which reached toward the heavens ahead. "Is that…"

"Yep," the co-pilot said. "London. Largest city in the world. You boys never seen it before?"

77 silently shook his head; he had seen one version of London, but this certainly was not it. "Here we go," Carver said into his radio. "Do we have any unsecured communications?"

"No, sir," a voice came back from the other end. "Enemy is deaf and dumb…only thing they have is shortwave. Good luck coordinating air defenses with that."

"All the same, let's make this quick. All units engage; regroup at the Tower."

"Copy."

As the choppers passed over the London suburbs, several jets dropped into view ahead…101 dimly recognized F-23 Lightning strike fighters, their dark wings emblazoned with the white fist. They swung to the left, crossing in front of the helicopters, and then suddenly climbed. But even as the buildings rose in height, the helicopters did not pull up. Dead ahead loomed a canyon of glass, and the Black Hawk's pilot steered straight into it. The two Resistance soldiers seated on either side of Carver stood and opened the aircraft's side doors, each of them swinging a .50-caliber machinegun out from its stowage position. The noise of the helicopter's engine and the rushing air instantly rose by several volumes, rendering speech impossible without a headset. The street below was pure chaos, civilians abandoning cars as they ran for cover…weapons thundered intermittently in the distance, but it was impossible to know who was firing and at what.

Then things started to happen very quickly. The pilot yelled something which none of the Oompa-Loompas could hear over the rush of air, and the Black Hawk suddenly climbed as two more helicopters appeared between the buildings ahead…but these were definitely not Resistance. Both opened up with machineguns, the Resistance choppers evading however possible in the limited space; the Black Hawk tipped hard onto its left side, and the passengers grabbed at their restraints. IP-101 looked out the right side of the aircraft to see nothing but the solid wall of a building…it seemed to be no more than a few inches from the tips of the rotors, and for a brief instant he was certain they were about to crash. But then the Black Hawk dove hard and dodged to the left, circling around another skyscraper…the two enemy gunships had been engaged by three Resistance aircraft, and then the dueling helicopters disappeared from sight. The helicopter swung back around, dropped, and rounded another building…the dense cityscape opened ahead, and another immense structure came into view.

Far from being sleek and modern, however, this building was a single vast monolith of concrete, completely unadorned save for the huge symbol of the winged sword chiseled into each face. This, surely, was the Tower of London. The huge building occupied the center of a circular compound…the Resistance jets seen earlier now screamed overhead, and the courtyard erupted in massive explosions. Another round of munitions struck the top of the tower, obliterating most of the anti-air guns, and Resistance helicopters now moved in. Several gunships swept past the Black Hawk, diving in to strafe surviving troops in the courtyard…both door gunners blazed away as the pilot swung low and to the right, circling the building. The Deepstar crewmen received a brief vision of _something_ moving in the courtyard, a huge machine stomping about on four crab-like legs as it exchanged fire with a Resistance gunship…then the Black Hawk started to climb straight up along the vertical face of the Tower, and the walker disappeared from view.

The descent slowed as the aircraft came even with the Tower's flat roof, revealing the expanse of eight enormous helipads…and the smoldering ruins of at least a dozen gun turrets. Carver and one of the door gunners both drew weapons and leapt out of the Black Hawk onto the flat expanse of the nearest ruined helipad; 77 and 101 looked at each other and started to follow. 77 paused and looked back at the Doctor and 48. "You two stay here! Jonesy, stay with them!" The two civilians nodded; Jonesy looked as if he was about to say something, but 77 had already turned and exited the chopper. The moment the two Oompa-Loompas were clear, the Black Hawk lifted back into the air and moved a safe distance away from the building. The two pilots stayed behind Carver, following the rebel officer's lead. They quickly found themselves in a firefight. Black-armored troops streamed out onto the roof from countless doorways; no matter how many fell, more seemed to pour out from the Tower. The rebels dropped down off the helipads into the maze which covered the top of the tower, a combination of wreckage from the bombardment and various environmental control systems. Bullets whipped over the Oompa-Loompas' heads, at lethal height for a human…Resistance fighters took position behind whatever cover was available and shot back. Fires still burned here and there from the rebel munitions, clouding the battle area; neither of the Wonka pilots could see anything, and so tried only to keep track of each other and Carver. The officer was crouched behind an air conditioning unit ahead, yelling orders; 77 and 101 ducked under a conduit and moved up to join him. Suddenly, a man in a black uniform and red beret appeared from behind a section of ruined girder and took aim at the two tiny figures…there was no time to think, only react.

101 raised his submachine gun, his eye automatically aligning itself with the sights…his finger tightened on the trigger, and a neat four-round burst stitched itself up the man's torso. The enemy solider dropped to the ground, and 101 smiled grimly: _Well, I'm definitely part of the Resistance_ now.

 _London, the Tower, Cellblock A_

As the building continued to shake, SC-80 looked sideways at General Bucket. "You knew they were coming?"

"I suspected," the General said with a grin. "Despite my shortcomings, they're rather fond of me." There was a jarring impact, the lights flickered, and Bucket looked up toward the ceiling in alarm. "I could be wrong, but I think they're actually _bombing_ us." The shaking continued for several more minutes before it died down, and then a faint sound reverberated from somewhere above, almost muted by the thick concrete walls: gunshots. The General and the Captain could do nothing but wait, the potential anticipation of release combining itself with the dread of hearing the doors to the cellblock open. _They'll come in here and shoot Bucket before they let him escape,_ SC-80 thought, _and they'll probably do me offhand while they're at it._ But there was nothing that either of them could do…the cells offered no cover, and there was certainly no place to hide.

When the energy bars suddenly vanished, it took SC-80 a moment to realize what had happened. There was no concussion or other indicator of damage to the building's systems; suddenly the background hum just stopped, and SC-80 glanced over at General Bucket. He had been staring between the bars, so he did not actually realize they were gone until he looked over at the entrance to the General's cell…he watched with shock as a wondering Bucket quickly stepped out into the corridor, shrugged, and then gestured for him to follow. It was then that the Captain finally realized the bars over his own cell had vanished and, feeling extraordinarily foolish, he joined the General in the corridor. "Well," Bucket said, "I guess…" At that moment, a door hissed open, and two voices spoke through the guttural filter of gas masks.

"…can't let the son of a bitch get out of here. You take care of the little one…I've got Bucket."

Instantly, the General retreated back into his cell, taking position just behind the corner where the cell wall met the corridor…SC-80 sprinted across the hallway and took position behind the larger man. One of the guards swore, obviously seeing the deactivated security fields, and there was the unmistakable sound of pistols being drawn from their holsters. The footsteps of the two men slowly drew nearer. The first man came into view on the far side of the corridor, his head turned away from the General as he looked into the Captain's empty cell. If he had turned at that exact moment, he could have shot both the Captain and the General dead where they stood, but his pause lasted just long enough for the second guard to appear around the corner. His gun was already in position, but that did not last long as Bucket sprang forward and shoved the man's arms to the left, knocking the guard off balance. Bucket stepped in, smashed the toe of his boot into the man's groin, and then seized hold of both the guard's pistol and his hands. Yanking the weapon up while still holding tight to its owner, Bucket shot the guard opposite before kicking his current target away, neatly disarming him in the process. The surviving guard started to stagger upright, but Bucket did not give him a chance to recover…one round struck the enemy in the throat, two more went under the lower edge of his Kevlar vest, and the man collapsed in a bloody heap. The General instantly began pulling off the guard's equipment and uniform, rapidly disguising himself and hiding his face behind the soldier's mask. He glanced significantly at the other enemy. "His pistol might be a bit heavy for you, but it's better than nothing." The Captain nodded and took the weapon from the other dead man; it was indeed unwieldy, but at least he was armed. "Stay behind me," General Bucket said, and headed for the cellblock's exit.

Pistol out, Bucket advanced down a series of hallways, SC-80 doing his best to stay out of sight behind the General's legs. It was not cowardice, but rather prudence…Bucket simply looked like a prison guard, but it was rather difficult to explain his accompaniment by an armed Oompa-Loompa. Bucket stopped cold as a group of enemy soldiers charged past at an intersecting hallway ahead, none of them sparing more than a glance in his direction; the moment it was clear, he continued down the hall ahead and into another cellblock. "This is interesting," the General muttered, gesturing with his gun…every cell door was open.

"We might be wise to expedite our escape," SC-80 said nervously. "If there are now violent criminals loose in the building on top of everything else."

"Tower of London's all political prisoners," Bucket replied, "too prestigious for average felons. All the same, this uniform might be a bad choice of apparel if we run into anyone…" Ironically, it was at that exact moment that they did, in fact, run into someone. A dozen figures in dark green kicked open the door just ahead, weapons raised as they swept into the room; before they even had a chance to speak, Bucket had dropped his pistol and had his hands raised above his head. SC-80 stepped out from behind the General, hoping that if these were in fact friends, his presence might help keep the rebels from firing on their own leader. The Resistance fighter in the lead aimed his weapon at Bucket and managed "Drop your…" before he realized that Bucket had already disarmed himself. His eyes snapped down to the Captain, who quickly dropped his own pistol. "This man a prisoner?"

The Captain stood, wondering why Bucket did not answer, and then he realized that the soldier had been addressing him. "Hardly," SC-80 said. "General, if you please."

Bucket slowly reached one hand down and pulled off his gas mask. Instantly, the soldiers' weapons dropped, and they snapped into crisp salute. "General, sir! My apologies, sir!" the leader said.

"No need," Bucket replied. "Let's get out of here."

Two new figures stepped into the cellblock behind the other Resistance fighters, and the Captain grinned. "Sir!" IP-101 said, his voice expressing nothing but relief as he and 77 both rushed forward. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, thanks in large part to this man," SC-80 said. "Boys, this is General Bucket." Both Oompa-Loompas nodded to the General, and then 77 shot the Captain a questioning look. 80 nodded. "Yes…he's related to Charlie. I'll explain en route."

"Brought this for you, sir," 77 said, reaching behind himself and drawing out a Loompa-scale Beretta 92. Relieved, the Captain threw the guard's oversized pistol aside. General Bucket was hurried into the center of the Resistance formation, men covering him on all sides; their primary target secure, the rebels now began to withdraw from the building. Carver met Bucket at the end of the next corridor, his features splitting into a broad smile as he spoke into his radio.

"All units, the General is secure. We're pulling out."


	17. Escape, Part 5

_Imperial executive transport, approaching the Tower_

Violet Beauregarde had known what was happening from the instant the communications blackout started. There was only one thing that _could_ be happening…the Resistance was trying to free Bucket. Now, as her helicopter approached the Tower of London, dozens of additional aircraft were circling the building, many of them bearing the hated white fist. The pilot looked back at her. "Milady, we're not equipped to fly into that. We have no weapons and only one escort."

"That will have to do!" Violet spat, picking up a radio headset and keying in the frequency of the lone Tiger Mk. III escorting her own aircraft. "Whiskey Two, move ahead and punch a hole. It doesn't have to last…just give me time to land."

"Whiskey Two copies. Hellfires…going hot." The gunship leapt forward, releasing a pair of deadly rockets…two of the hovering Resistance choppers exploded one after the other, and the Tiger kept firing as it pulled hard to the right. Enemy aircraft scattered and then turned to engage, a break in their coverage opening up above the Tower's east helipads…

"There!" Violet jabbed a finger in the direction of the open pads, but her pilot was already angling in that direction. One of the circling Resistance gunships now spotted the incoming aircraft, rounds slashing past the lightly armored fuselage of the transport. The pilot swore nonstop as he dodged another volley, pulled hard to the left, and then dropped sharply, now directly over the helipad.

"My Lady," he started to say, but Violet had already thrown open the helicopter's side door and leapt the last seven or eight feet down onto the roof of the building, turning her momentum into a neat forward roll. She came up just in time to watch her helicopter take a direct hit and spin out of control into the courtyard below… _A shame…that pilot really did have some spirit if he was willing to take an unarmed craft into a warzone._ With a shrug, Violet turned and leapt down from the helipad, dropping down onto the main part of the roof. Several more gunships were now approaching, firing at the Resistance aircraft…a Resistance fighter stood up from behind a ventilation unit just to Violet's right, aiming an RPG. She vaulted over the obstacle, coming face-to-face with the startled man; a swift kick to the stomach knocked the wind from him, a second kick took out his right leg, and a quick sweep of Violet's hands cracked the man's head to one side, his own momentum breaking his neck. Another man shouted in alarm and started to raise a rifle…Violet rolled to one side, a stainless steel Desert Eagle emerging from the holster on each hip. The pistol in Violet's right hand bucked, and the Resistance fighter fell with a round cleanly through his forehead. Leaping back to her feet, the assassin chided herself…as much as she enjoyed this part of her job, she had more important things to attend to.

Moving swiftly and effortlessly through the pitched battle on the rooftop, pausing only to kill the handful of unfortunate enemies who got directly in her path, Violet swung herself up onto the top of a utility conduit. In an instant, she surveyed and assessed the entire progress of the engagement…her incompetent allies were faring even more poorly than she might have surmised…but then a surge of pure, hard adrenaline shot through her system. A helicopter was landing straight ahead, a group of men rushing toward it. _Bucket was already out_. Violet identified him in the center of the group… _meat shields on all sides…_ but she was undaunted. Though she could no longer properly smile, the skin on either side of her upper lip pulled back as she raised her weapons. Bucket had a wide, flat stretch of open ground to cover, and she had a magnificent angle. She could not hope to pick him out of the middle of his guards using only handguns…he was too far away for that. But there was still the alternative. _She would kill them all._

When General Bucket and his men emerged onto the roof, every crewman on every Resistance helicopter let out a cheer. But the celebration did not last long. As Bucket crossed the roof to the nearest landing platform, most of his troops spread out to provide cover, while another small cadre stayed immediately around the General to shield him from snipers. As fresh imperial troops exploded out onto the rooftop from various doorways, the Resistance forces completely overlooked the singularly deadly figure of Violet Beauregarde, who ignored the plethora of enemy targets around her to focus on the small group just ahead.

IP-101 ran, the Captain and 77 close beside him, following General Bucket and his guards. The General was making for a Black Hawk just ahead, the same Black Hawk that had brought them here…101 could make out the anxious faces of 48, Jonesy, and the Doctor watching from one side of the helicopter's main door. Two loud reports rang out, obviously from heavy-caliber guns; the two men immediately behind Bucket instantly fell, blood spattering the General's face as he turned involuntarily to look. Carver shoved the General past him and took position behind his leader, firing blindly at the enemy forces now pouring out of the Tower. Another three shots rang out, from the same weapon…the first round hit Carver in the front of his vest and knocked him off his feet. The second killed a Resistance fighter waiting to help Bucket aboard the helicopter; the third shattered the co-pilot's window and narrowly avoided taking off his face. With the helicopter taking fire, 77 zeroed in on the source of the muzzle flashes that had accompanied the shots and sprayed the remainder of his magazine…he had just run dry when the first round struck his left thigh. With a roar of pain, he collapsed, throwing his gun out like a crutch to catch himself.

101 heard 77's wordless bellow and turned back just in time to watch the other pilot clumsily attempting to reload…101 was just starting back to help his wounded fellow when the second round exploded through the middle of 77's chest. The pilot's face bore a brief expression of shock as he fell, an expression that gave way to blankness as he hit…hard…and did not move again. 101 was no medical expert, but he knew instantly that 77 was dead. 101 looked up from the body toward where he imagined the killer must be positioned; just then, like magic, the smoke parted. A woman in a form-fitting bodysuit came into view atop a utility conduit, pistol raised. Something about her struck 101 as supremely odd, but he could not identify it…the only thing he cared about was killing her. He started to run toward his comrade's murderer, but strong hands seized him from behind. He turned toward whoever had grabbed him…and came nose-to-nose with the Captain. "Forget it!" 80 roared, his voice pained but resolute. "He's dead! We have to go!" 101 looked back; he wanted vengeance, but the Captain was right. Fighting his instincts, 101 turned and ran for the helicopter…Bucket and Carver were already climbing aboard, but the aircraft still waited for the two Oompa-Loompas. As they reached the door, countless hands grabbed them and hauled them aboard, the transition from roof to helicopter instantaneous. In the process of leaning out to grab the Captain's arm, however, RA-48 lost his balance and fell, narrowly managing to grab the helicopter's right-side wheel.

Under fire, the pilot instantly lifted off the second her passengers were aboard; 48 now hung beneath the vehicle, his face a mask of pure terror as he looked down at the drop below his feet. The Black Hawk flew roughly level with the top of the building, Carver seizing the door gun and raking the enemy troops with fire as the chopper approached open air…then something happened that no sane person could have predicted. The woman, the one who had killed 77, suddenly appeared from nowhere, a heavy silver pistol clenched in each hand. The Black Hawk was still moving at low speed, and she kept pace with it, sprinting along even with the aircraft as it approached the end of the roof. 101 instantly realized what had struck him before: for starters, the woman's skin was blue.

The pilot wondered for a brief instant if he was hallucinating…but then Carver started firing at the blue woman with the door gun, confirming that she did in fact exist. The rounds missed, seeming to dance harmlessly around her feet…Carver turned to shout to the chopper pilot, but it was too late. By now, the Doctor and the Captain had both seized 48's arms and were pulling him into the helicopter…the Empress's assassin saw her chance and leapt off the roof, throwing aside one of her guns as she hurled herself through the air and shot out her left hand to grab hold of the Research Assistant as she passed. The stunt was unbelievable, incredible, and utterly terrifying in its singleness of purpose: she was after the General at all costs, even that of her own life.

For RA-48, time seemed to slow. A tremendous weight suddenly yanked him down, nearly pulling him free of his companions in the chopper above…for a brief, horrifying instant, the grip on his arms slipped away completely, and his right hand swung free in space. Then the grip on his left arm tightened, redoubled…IP-101, Jonesy, and even the gray-haired man in the military uniform were all reaching down to help him, grabbing whatever part of him they could reach. The full weight of both the Oompa-Loompa's own body and that of his assailant was resting on his left arm, searing pain shooting through his shoulder; he tried to swing his right hand up, but to no avail. 48 looked down and felt pure terror shoot through him as he saw precisely _what_ had seized him in its vice grip…the woman's face and hands were a shocking shade of blue, her entire chin and lower jaw replaced by some type of steel contraption that gave her the look of a mechanical bulldog. Her left hand was clenched around his right leg, her grip so tight it was painful…she was not looking at him, but rather at something above him, a manic gleam in her eyes as she raised the pistol still clenched in her right hand. General Bucket had inadvertently put himself in harm's way by reaching down to pull RA-48 aboard, the gun swinging up to aim directly into his face…48 kicked wildly, throwing off the assassin's aim…a round sparked off the side of the helicopter an inch from the General's head, and the assassin still held on. "Here, mate!" The voice came from just above his head, and 48 looked up to see Jonesy holding 77's knife out to him, the simple blade looking like some divine weapon of the gods.

48 swung his hand up and seized the knife, slashing wildly downwards. The first swing hit nothing, the assassin blocking the knife with the barrel of her gun and nearly tearing it from 48's grip…on pure reflex, the Research Assistant stabbed again, this time at the hand which held his leg. It was a miracle he did not jab himself with the implement…the knife stuck between the assassin's index and middle finger and slid down to the hilt, splitting the enemy's hand nearly in half. Violet Beauregarde could have ignored the pain…but not the sudden loss of strength which accompanied the severing of major tendons. The assassin fell free with the knife still lodged firmly in her left hand, firing at the helicopter with a wordless scream of fury as she plummeted into space…the Black Hawk was now over the Thames, and Violet struck the water with lethal force. There was a sickening impact, a tremendous splash, and the Empress's assassin disappeared beneath the rippling water.

 _UH-60 Black Hawk "Ranger One," heading south over Greater London_

"What the hell was _that_?" Jonesy panted as RA-48 was heaved aboard, the other Oompa-Loompa almost landing on top of him.

"You mean Metalmouth?" Carver said, shooting a dark glare at where the assassin had been an instant before. "That, good sir, was Violet Beauregarde…Salt's private grim reaper."

"Salt." SC-80 said the name quietly, unable to lose the sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Salt, you know?" The other door gunner said. "As in Empress Veruca Salt." The Deepstar crew only glanced at each other.

"Well, she's dead now, in any case!" Jonesy crowed, his voice carrying a certain perverse pleasure…but Carver only shook his head.

"We'll be seeing her again soon." Jonesy looked baffled, but Carver said nothing further.

"I'm sorry about your friend," General Bucket said, addressing himself to the five Oompa-Loompas seated on the floor of his helicopter. "He died bravely. And I know it doesn't help, but just remember that you aren't the first to lose a friend in battle…and you won't be the last." Bucket placed a firm hand on the Captain's shoulder, rested it there for a moment, and then turned to Carver. "How many of ours?"

The other man met the General's gaze evenly. "Seventeen, sir."

Bucket swore. "Seventeen in exchange for me…damn it all."

"We weren't about to leave you, sir." This came from the pilot, and was spoken with such force and finality that no one added anything after it. The helicopters whisked low over the countryside and out over the expanse of the English Channel; a few distant explosions marked where the fighter cover engaged _something_ , but the main squadron of helicopters went unchallenged. Whatever disruption the Resistance had performed on the enemy's communications, they had done it well. The four Oompa-Loompas from another world…of whom there should now have been five…transferred themselves from the floor into seats, each of them lost in his own thoughts. There did not seem to be any words for what had just happened, and even Jonesy could not think of anything to say. RA-48 was still in a state of shock after narrowly avoiding death. SC-80 could only think of the fact that IP-77 had died in the course of rescuing him, and what should have been a gain was instead only an exchange…one life for another. _I lost one of my men_. But perhaps the greatest burden fell on Research Physicist 18. No matter how many times the rational part of his mind told him that it was an honest mistake…there was no way that any of them could have known…he could not shake the horrible feeling that this, all of this, was his fault. _I_ should _have known,_ a voice growled within his head. _I am the scientist…the theoretical physicist, no less. I should have foreseen what would happen if we landed on Earth, if we were allowed to meddle with the past. I should never have allowed it…and now whatever happens is on my head._ And though the idea was unfairly harsh, RP-18 did not bother to cast it off. Bitterness helped him think.

The helicopter turned east and continued over the water for some distance before land finally came into sight ahead. Finally they stopped, hovering over what appeared to be an empty expanse of forest below. But then the forest canopy began to open, the trees literally sliding apart to reveal a wide expanse of level dirt beneath. The choppers eased down one after another and powered down, crews and passengers disembarking. As soon as the last of the aircraft was on the ground, the forest canopy slid back into place…on the ground, men pushed huge wheeled frames covered by camouflage netting and artificial treetops back into position, creating the illusion of an unbroken tract of wilderness. Men gathered around Bucket's helicopter, cheering as they welcomed the General. As he left the aircraft, Bucket turned to the Oompa-Loompas. "Thank you for your help, my friends. Thank you all." He pointed to a tent to the right of the landing field. "We have food and hot coffee over there…not exactly gourmet, but it looks as if you chaps could use something to eat. Head over and someone will help you out."

The Captain nodded. "Thank you, sir."

The exhausted Loompas climbed down from the helicopter and followed the General's direction, taking a table at a sort of field mess that had been erected under the tent. The food was a bland brown stew with canned side dishes, but it still tasted delicious after over twenty-four hours without anything to eat. When they had nearly finished, a camp orderly passed the table and set out five small, white tablets in a paper cup. "For fatigue," he said with an understanding smile. Under other circumstances, the Captain and his men might have been more cautious…suffering from both tiredness and the aftereffects of battle shock, however, they popped the capsules into their mouths without hesitation. Jonesy promptly started trying to cut his in half with a fork to see if there was anything inside; after the military personnel fearlessly swallowed their pills, however, he followed suit and popped the capsule into his mouth. Five minutes passed and nothing happened…then, quite abruptly, the Oompa-Loompas began to feel even worse than before. Despite their best attempts to shake it off, the welcoming arms of sleep embraced the exhausted Deepstar crewmen and instantly drew them in. IP-101 managed the words "Pills were…a…sedative" before his head dropped onto the table. Jonesy stood up from the table and managed several drunken steps toward the orderly…who was returning, accompanied by three other men…The Oompa-Loompa clenched a fist to make some menacing statement but then promptly fell forward, narrowly avoiding planting his face in the dirt as the orderly caught him. Now solidly unconscious, the five Oompa-Loompas remained oblivious as they were loaded gently into the back of a truck.

General Bucket shook his head as he watched the five small figures being carried away from the field mess, the right sleeve of 48's tunic covered in coffee. "Shame we had to do that."

Carver shook his head. "You won't think it's a shame if we figure out they're spies, sir."

"After Beauregarde shot down one of their men, you still think they could be enemy agents?"

Carver shrugged. "It would make a damn good cover, and it wouldn't be the first time that Nova Britannia sacrificed an Oompa-Loompa or two…or several thousand."

Bucket nodded slowly, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose with one hand. "You're right, I suppose. But what's the world coming to when you have to treat every friend as a potential hostile?"

"That's exactly the world we're trying to get rid of, sir."

 _Royal Genetic Institute, London_

Empress Veruca Salt stared at the figure floating behind the glass, a human shape obscured by the translucent membrane of the synthetic cocoon which surrounded it. "She turned out very nicely," the voice of the head doctor said nearby. "We were able to purify her genetic code, removing that damned blue color, and of course all of the damage to her face is gone." The fluid surrounding the cocoon was slowly draining away, attendants moving forward as the transparent cover of the birthing pod slid open. The umbilical had already been removed from the clone, leaving only the cocoon; with quick, precise movements, the two technicians sliced it open and peeled it away, revealing the naked form of a twenty-year-old Violet Beauregarde, still curled in the fetal position. Instantly, her eyes shot open and she tried to take a shuddering breath, choking on the fluid in her lungs…the two attendants helped clear her respiratory tract, cleaned away the residue from her birthing, and performed a battery of basic tests to verify proper brain development. Finally, they stepped back, the resurrected Violet now seated on the side of her birthing pod and swathed in a thick blanket.

"Leave me with her," the Empress said, and the doctor and his attendants bowed and quickly left the room.

Violet looked up at Veruca Salt, pain in her eyes. "I failed, Your Majesty," she said, her voice now the gentle tone of human vocal cords rather than the grating of a machine. "Bucket escaped."

Veruca gently shushed Violet, pressing a finger to her own lips. "I don't want any of that, my dear…the General's escape was a setback, nothing more. You did _everything_ you could…you jumped off a roof for me, and I certainly can't ask you for more than _that_. It wasn't your fault, and I won't have you blaming yourself." Veruca knelt in front of the assassin. "Look at me." Violet did so, and Veruca smiled, a finger tracing its way down Violet's cheek. "I do like you _this_ color, not that there's anything wrong with blue."

"Am I…" Violet started to rise, frantically looking around for a reflective surface. Finding none, she turned back to the Empress. Her voice was a hopeful whisper. "I'm back to my normal color again?"

"Yes," Veruca replied softly, "and you have your face back, my love." She was now leaning quite close, one arm sliding around Violet's waist.

"My Lady…" the assassin said weakly and tried to pull away, but not with any conviction. She was trembling.

"I _have_ missed these lips," Veruca crooned gently, stroking a finger down over Violet's mouth.

"I've missed _you_ ," Violet whispered, and there was no longer any pretense. Their lips met, and Violet slowly leaned into the Empress, the blanket starting to slip from her shoulders.

"Your Majesty." A nasal voice spoke from behind, and Violet pulled away from the Empress with a startled little cry. Veruca turned only her head, her expression venomous. Mike Teavee and Augustus Gloop stood side by side…or rather, Teavee stood and Gloop floated. Seen together, they looked like two opposite halves of a comedy duo…Teavee incredibly tall and thin, with a studious air…Gloop short by virtue of being always seated, absurdly fat, and with a permanent look of silliness thanks to his bulging cheeks. The Minister of Information bore the bland look which he usually wore when not on the air; he seemed to regard the scene of two lovely young women kissing with a clinical detachment. Gloop's eyes, on the other hand, looked as though they might pop out of his head. "Your Majesty," Teavee repeated, "I apologize for disturbing you, but our communications are back on the air and people want answers. What shall I tell them?"

"The truth," Veruca said softly. "Tell them General Bucket has escaped, and give them assurances that he will be recaptured soon. Put his face on every television screen in the world, and offer twenty million pounds to anyone who provides information leading to his capture. We'll see how many friends he has then. There will be thousands of false leads, but I'm sure our intelligence division has the resources to sort truth from fiction. Speaking of which, what of Mr. Black?" Veruca sighed. "He gave me his word that Bucket could not escape."

"He has committed suicide," General Gloop said with a nervous gulp, "in order to avoid ze…alternative."

"Very well. Thank you, Minister…General." The two men turned to leave, Gloop shooting one furtive glance backward. The door closed, and this time Veruca swiftly crossed the room and secured the electronic locking mechanism. She turned back to Violet, grinning wickedly.

"Now…where were we?"


	18. Newfound Friends, Part 1

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

* * *

 _Unidentified Resistance base_

SC-80 awoke in a small room…his first impression was of a cell, but the space was far too large and far too comfortable to be a detention chamber. He was lying on a narrow but pleasantly soft bunk, aware of a gentle murmur of voices in the background. He sat up and his head swam; shaking himself and administering a slap to one side of his face, his awareness crystallized and he was better able to ascertain just what manner of place this was. A toilet was located in the corner, a sink and shower alcove set into the adjacent wall. A small table and chair stood by the head of his bunk, and a television rested on a stand in the nearer corner, beside the door. The Captain sat for a moment, considering…he clearly remembered the tablet he had swallowed, and he wondered what precisely the Resistance members might intend to do with him and his men. Standing up from his bunk, he found that the door was locked from outside…which he rather expected…the relative comfort of the room, however, indicated that he was not here as a prisoner. Offhand, he could not think of any particular reason why the Resistance should have felt it necessary to drug him, but then again he did not know the full situation. _Oh, well. Nothing to be done for it at the moment._

Turning, he started to investigate the television, but then he noticed the neat stack of linens piled on the table. Picking it up, he found the bundle to consist of a towel and a set of clothes. A note was placed on the top: "Please place uniform in receptacle for repair and laundering." Looking around, he identified a chute just to one side of the door that must have been the receptacle in question. Looking down at his uniform, he grinned and shook his head as he imagined the Fuhrer walking in to perform an inspection and seeing him in his present state. His clothes were a mess: muddy from his fall in the swamp, twisted and wrinkled from being both run and slept in, and torn in several places where he had fallen. Shrugging, he took off the uniform and deposited it in the chute before showering and dressing in the fresh clothes provided. The fabric felt strange…much coarser than what the Captain was used to…but not uncomfortable. Locating a remote control, he flipped through stations on the television, which was obviously streaming public broadcast signals being hijacked from a satellite. And while the programming was not particularly interesting for its own sake, he found himself fascinated. Most of the channels were government programming of some kind…the winged sword was everywhere, and the Captain had never seen more blatant propaganda. The news of the attack on the Tower of London was being publicized, a massive reward being offered for information leading to Bucket's recapture…the Captain changed the channel, and watched as an anchorman described four Oompa-Loompas "in foreign uniforms" being sought by authorities. Finally, he turned off the television and slept, finding that a tray of food had been delivered upon awakening.

The Captain spent the next three days in his strange little suite. Breakfast and dinner were delivered to him, yet he was allowed out for lunch each day, being escorted to a small dining area. The other Deepstar crewmen and Jonesy would join him there, the Loompas' time in proximity being closely but politely monitored by a handful of armed guards standing casually at the exits to the room. Though they had to limit their speech, he managed to devise a rough code by substituting words and phrases. It took the others a bit of time to catch on, and it was exceedingly difficult to maintain a natural-sounding conversation, but two important points were nonetheless clarified. First, the Captain revealed the plain and terrible truth: _Charlie Bucket is the key to all of this, and we denied his chance at the Golden Ticket._ Second, the others agreed that, when explanations were demanded, the Captain would lead the conversation…whatever he said, the others would do their best to follow, improvising where necessary.

Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, the door to the Captain's room opened. Carver entered followed by a trio of Resistance fighters, one of whom placed another pile of neatly-pressed clothes on the Captain's table. Carver nodded politely. "I'm sorry to have kept you in the dark like this, but I also hope you can understand our need for caution. When you're ready, General Bucket would like a word. One of my men will be waiting outside." With that he was gone and the door hissed shut. SC-80 rose and picked up the new set of clothes: his uniform, which he had identified immediately from the color. _I have to hand it to whoever does their laundry,_ he thought wryly…his uniform was not only spotless, but all of the damage had been repaired. Placing his current clothes into the laundry receptacle, the Captain donned his uniform and stepped out into the corridor. The soldier waiting outside nodded politely.

"If you'll follow me, sir." The other man led the way, taking the Captain through a maze of corridors and rooms…the officer tried to keep track of their course at first, but it soon proved impossible. Some of the walls were concrete, while many more were smooth rock. Wherever they were, it was clearly underground. The two men reached an elevator, went upward for the space of several floors, and passed through another maze to finally reach an office. A large oak desk occupied one corner, General Bucket seated behind it; on the opposite side of the room was a large device with a flat glass top…likely a tactical display table of some kind. National flags stood on poles around the perimeter of the room, each representing a different country…many of these flags were torn and singed, damage obviously acquired in combat. But what truly held the Captain's attention was the globe that stood on one corner of Bucket's desk…rather than the usual patchwork of differently colored countries which typically occupied a desktop globe, at least three-quarters of the landmass was a single monochromatic entity…national boundaries were still represented as faint outlines, but many of the names had been replaced by new ones, all of them followed by the word "district."

"Impressive when you see the Empire laid out this way, isn't it?" Bucket asked, giving the globe a little spin. The Captain's escort saluted and stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind him. Bucket extended a hand, indicating the other chair. SC-80 sat, trying to keep his features neutral. He was not entirely sure that he trusted Bucket any longer and, either way, he was most likely about to engage in the most fanciful and extensive lying he had ever done. He had spent the last three days concocting a story that might halfway justify the presence of himself and his men; what he had come up with seemed weak to him, but it was hardly as outlandish as announcing that he and his compatriots had originated in a parallel universe. He fought off the urge to laugh as he imagined the alternative: _Well, sir, as it turns out your son was basically the key to the world as we know it, and my friends and I accidentally doomed the entire future while travelling through time in a spaceship._ The urge to laugh grew stronger, and the Captain could feel his features desperately trying to form themselves into a grin. _It sounds like an episode of Star Trek._ "Is something amusing?" the General asked calmly, and the Captain shrugged.

"Sorry. Just one of those thoughts, you know? I couldn't explain it if I tried."

"Always seem to strike at inopportune moments, don't they?" Bucket did not smile.

"Yes, sir. You wanted to see me." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes." Bucket sat forward in his chair. "Well, as far as I can tell, you're not spies. We took the liberty of scanning you while you were unconscious…other than a sort of identity chip thing which was not actively transmitting, we found nothing on either yourselves or your uniforms." He sighed. "I realize the strain which your…abduction…has undoubtedly placed on the relationship between my organization and your men, and for that I can only apologize. For what little it is worth, I hope you can understand our need for caution. It would not be the first time that the enemy has tried to slip an agent into our camp."

The Captain nodded and gave a slight smile. "Yes, sir. All the same, it makes for a hell of a first impression."

General Bucket still did not smile. "In our defense, we had reason to be suspicious…and we still do. We're no longer treating you as an enemy, but we also don't know that you're a friend. As a matter of fact, we don't know anything about you. You and your men don't match any faction we know of, and your identity chips read on a frequency which no communications system in the world uses. We don't even know your names. Before we go any further, I would like to know several things, if of course you don't mind."

SC-80 was sweating in his freshly laundered tunic, but he kept his face impassive. _I guess we're about to find out the extent of my acting skills._ He held his hands out in a sort of shrug, palms up. "Not at all, sir. Ask away."

The puzzlement in Bucket's expression was genuine. "Who _are_ you?"

"Personally, or as an organization?"

Bucket made a steeple of his fingers, his gaze intense. "Let's start with your organization."

"My men and I are part of a private military operating under one Mr. Charles Wonka, cousin to William 'Willy' Wonka." SC-80 desperately hoped that Bucket would not know much about the original Fuhrer…whose fate the Captain still did not know himself. "Charles was and remains reclusive…it seems to be something of a Wonka family trait. Regardless, when things…went as they did…" the Captain was trying hard to make it sound as if he knew the history of all that had transpired and did not need to repeat it, even though in truth he knew nothing "…Mr. Wonka took several of his cousin's technological inventions and a great deal of money, and he essentially created his own independent state."

"How can that be? After the lawsuits from that Golden Ticket Tour, the Wonka Company collapsed. Chadworth took everything." _The Company doesn't even exist in this timeline._ It felt as if someone had punched SC-80 in the gut, but he still kept his features neutral, letting Bucket's input help him craft his story.

"Not everything, sir. Charles Wonka is an extremely resourceful man. Our leader gathered a large group of like-minded individuals, many of them Oompa-Loompas. His idea was to create an independent, hidden enclave…a sort of technological Shangri-La if you will…which would provide refuge for political and social malcontents. We named it New Atlantis…it's not exactly a lost city, but Mr. Wonka thought the name appropriate because we're essentially a myth to the rest of the world."

"And where is this magical hidden city, exactly?"

SC-80 sighed. "With all respect, sir, I can't tell you that. If you were ever compromised…" Bucket's stare did not waver, and SC-80 was overcome by a horrible sinking feeling. _We're screwed_. But he kept his face pleasant and open, his expression completely calm and serene.

The General sat back in his chair. "So how did you get here?"

SC-80 smiled. "You won't believe it."

"Try me."


	19. Newfound Friends, Part 2

The Captain had heard people describe the feeling of butterflies in their stomach…his stomach was presently occupied by two wildcats tearing each other to pieces in a fight to the death. He shrugged, and allowed his tone to grow more solemn. "I lied to you earlier. I said that my companions and I were survivors of a plane crash. We did crash, but it was not an airplane. Chadworth's spacecraft designs are well guarded, but not nearly well enough. We've been building our own ships for the past two years, scoping out the lunar settlements. We know almost nothing. Are slaves being used there? Could we incite a rebellion? Would it be a good place to establish a foothold? These are the kinds of questions we want to answer. Anyway, things went sour during our last reconnaissance mission. Our ship was identified and shot down, and we crashed west of London. They caught us not long afterward."

Bucket reached into a drawer of his desk and drew out a manila envelope, which he placed in front of him. SC-80 was relieved, because he had honestly feared the General was going for a weapon. "Your story is…remarkable, to say the least." The Captain felt sick, and Bucket never changed that infernally calm demeanor. "If you are in fact a spy, you are undoubtedly the most creative I've ever seen…with a tale that outlandish, you're either a stupendous actor, completely insane…or telling the truth." Bucket opened the envelope and drew out several documents, placing them on the desk facedown. "Can you offer me any proof of any of this?"

SC-80 allowed himself to slouch back a bit in his chair, the gesture of a weary man. "Nothing other than our uniforms, and that's hardly anything to go on. The clothes on our backs were the only things to survive the crash. I know it all sounds crazy, and I'm afraid I don't have a thing to prove it with."

"Perhaps I do." SC-80 looked up sharply. Bucket extended a hand, holding a sheet of paper. SC-80 took it and stared at it. It was an enlarged black-and-white image, clearly pulled from a digital recorder of some kind…the resolution was terrible, but it was clear enough to make out what it showed: the ruined hull of Deepstar Five.

SC-80 forgot his act, his mind unable to process what he was seeing. "Where did you get this?" He looked up at Bucket in genuine astonishment.

"I have eyes everywhere, my friend," the General said, finally smiling for the first time. "That was dragged into Chadworth Industries' main laboratory complex four days ago. From the look on your face, I'm assuming you recognize your ship?"

"That's her," SC-80 said, staring again at the printout. His voice took on a new urgency. "General, I don't know how, but we have to get her back. There is technology on board that cannot be allowed to fall into enemy hands!" He could not even conceive of what might happen if someone else managed to activate the warp drive.

"From what my informant said, it didn't sound as if she was in imminent danger of flying again anytime soon."

"That's true, but they could still dismantle her."

"A find of that magnitude? I doubt it. If I may make a suggestion, you might let the enemy hold onto her for a while…if you want her back, that is. Let them repair her. My informant will keep me notified of progress; we let the enemy put your ship back together for you, and then we steal her back. I know it's hardly an ideal solution, but we don't have the capacity to do the repairs here. Now if you want to destroy her, that's a different story…and much easier."

SC-80 shook his head. _Annihilate our only chance at correcting the past…the only way we'd resort to that is to prevent Chadworth from rewriting things even further, if it comes to it. The enemy might learn a few things if we let them keep the ship for the time being, but ultimately it doesn't matter. We set things right, none of this will ever have happened. The only thing that matters is the survival and repair of that vessel._ The Captain looked up at the General. "No, sir. We have to get my ship back…eventually. I agree with you. Let the enemy keep her…they may learn a thing or two, but it's the only way to get her flying again. Just keep me informed of any changes, sir."

Bucket nodded. "Do you have any other way home, any way to contact your people?

"None. And we're too far away for the identification chips to work. They don't know if we're alive or dead."

The General's cold demeanor was gone, and now his curiosity was genuine. "If I may go back to my first question: who are you lot, I mean personally? And why do all of you look so damned similar? Not to be rude, but it's unnerving. Even your blood types come up as the same."

SC-80 pushed aside the troubling question of his spacecraft and adopted a polite smile. "Well, I am a trained spacecraft captain and commander of our expedition. The other military man is my co-pilot and communications officer…the one who died back at the Tower was my main pilot. The other two are civilians; the older gentlemen with the glasses is one of the scientists who developed the spacecraft…he insisted on being aboard for the maiden flight of our bird…and the other man is his assistant. There was another assistant who didn't…he didn't survive the crash."

Bucket's face took on an expression of grim sympathy. "I'm sorry."

The Captain shook his head. "It was an accident, unavoidable. You asked about our faces, our blood types. One is a simple matter of disguise…keep the enemy from identifying key personnel, never let them know our true numbers. The other is a bit of bioengineering designed to ensure that all military personnel can accept blood transfusions from any donor, human or Oompa-Loompa. Maximize our chances for survival. I told you that Mr. Wonka has a remarkable mind."

"The fellow in the leather jacket…he's not with you, is he?"

"The others met him while they were waiting for the prison train to London. I didn't actually speak with him until we were off the helicopter."

"One more question, if you'll allow it." The Captain nodded. "Why haven't you ever contacted the Resistance? With your technology…" Bucket did not finish the sentence, but the implication was clear: _You could change the course of this whole fight._

SC-80 wanted to reply with the truth… _New Atlantis doesn't really exist_. But instead he launched into the final part of his story, the one which he still feared might upset the General. "Forgive me in advance, sir, for what I am about to say. They are Mr. Wonka's words…not mine. Frankly, however…Mr. Wonka believes the Resistance to be a lost cause." Bucket started to speak, but then thought better of it. The Captain continued. "Our leader believes that the best way to win is to outlast the enemy…wait for decades before making a move, centuries if need be. That's why he built the largest self-supporting installation in history…why he's already trained and declared his successor. He says that fighting now is a waste of energy, and ultimately all the Resistance will do is get its people killed. He believes the only real strategy is to wait until the enemy grows complacent, overconfident…wait until their leaders become lazy and their army lapses into incompetence. Then we attack, rise up across the entire world and bring the whole damned thing down in one go."

Bucket was shaking his head…not in disapproval, but as if he expected to shake himself awake. "Hmmm. This whole thing is like finding out that Santa Claus is real, or that there really are little green men from Mars." He looked at the Captain and smiled. "Well, my friend, Mr. Wonka can follow his strategy, and I'll follow mine. In the meantime, you are free to roam around the base…join the general population, so to speak. If you wish to leave, you are welcome. If you wish to stay with us, which I somewhat expected you would after asking me to keep you informed as to the state of your ship, it will be our pleasure to have you."

"Thank you, sir. I do have one question for _you_ : where exactly are we?"

"This," General Bucket said, gesturing around the room, "is part of a salt mine in central Bulgaria." He smiled. "I'll tell Bradley…that's the man who brought you up here…to go retrieve your companions. Then he can give you the grand tour. Anything else?"

"No, sir. Thank you, sir."


	20. Newfound Friends, Part 3

_Cellblock B, South London Detention Facility_

The door hissed open, but Awolowa Mugabe did not bother to rise from his bunk…or indeed to open his eyes. At least not until the newcomer spoke, for Mugabe did not expect a feminine voice. "You there, prisoner!" was all it said, its tone harsh, but the Oompa-Loompa still sat up in curiosity and looked to see exactly what manner of woman had just hailed him. She was a very attractive young blonde, her hair bobbed short…though her looks were somewhat reduced by the cold expression on her face. She was dressed in a black bodysuit, a heavy silver pistol strapped to either thigh; though he had never seen her in person before, Mugabe knew automatically who this must be. His face split into its trademark oily grin.

"How you doin', Miss Beauregarde? Don' take dis de wrong way, but you look much bettah in real life den in de photographs. I done thought deah was somethin' happen to yo face?"

Violet Beauregarde smiled coolly and tipped her head a bit to one side. "I had several old injuries repaired recently. I'm pleased that you noticed. But enough small talk. I'm here because…"

"Because General Bucket done escape, and you tinkin' you gonna use me as some kind o' tool or somethin' to bring him back in."

"Mr. Mugabe, some very powerful people want you dead. Do you really think that a common piece of underworld garbage like yourself has the slightest _chance_ in front of a magistrate?"

Mugabe's cool smile now mirrored Violet's own. "I tink you can kiss my oss, dot's what I tink. I'd rathah be shot heah den interrogated and shot by de Resistance. Wot you tink gone happen when you try an' slip someone into de enemy camp wit a radio and all kind o' crap on 'em?"

"Oh, but we've learned you see," Violet said softly. "We have some new…equipment…that we're certain even the most powerful scanners won't detect. We have things you wouldn't believe, Mr. Mugabe. And the mission is simple. No assassination, no sabotage…all you have to do is play the part of a prisoner. _Our_ prisoner. Blend in with the other Oompa-Loompas and just listen. And when the Resistance finally frees you…which we will make sure they do…all you have to do is follow them home and then transmit one little radio signal. We'll do the rest. You will receive a full pardon in exchange for your services, of course…and I don't suppose you've heard about the reward for Bucket's capture?"

"I mighta heard a ting or two from de guards," Mugabe said offhandedly. "But I tink de price is a little low."

"Double or nothing then," Violet said with a smile. "Complete this mission and you'll get twice the reward for Bucket, plus your choice of residence in any district of Nova Britannia. You can spend the rest of your days in luxury, Mr. Mugabe…all we need is your help in bringing a known terrorist to justice."

"An' you promise you can get me in quiet…no clumsy handlahs tippin' me off to de rebs?"

"Mr. Mugabe, with our new surveillance and communications systems, even _you_ won't know they are there except when transmitting."

Mugabe heaved himself off the bunk, ambled over, and stuck a hand between the bars…there was no disguising the greedy light now glowing in his eyes. "It will be my pleashah to serve my country. When do we start, boss?"

Violet turned away from the offered hand, two guards stepping forward behind her. "We begin _now_ , Mr. Mugabe."


	21. Six Months Later, Part 1

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

* * *

 _New Buckingham Palace, London_

General Augustus Gloop was sweating. Granted one always sweated when one weighed as much as a small automobile; even the slightest exertion was enough to render the General exhausted. But today's sweat was due to nerves rather than effort…he had been summoned to see the Empress, and he already knew the topic of discussion. The last months had been nothing but one raid and one attack after another, the Resistance seemingly emboldened with the saving of their beloved leader from the hangman's noose. But it was more than that…Gloop felt it. He had no evidence to back up his theory; it was only a hunch, and the Empress did not wish to hear about anything that was merely a hunch. But that did not change Gloop's premonition that this was only the first act of something larger…the Resistance was building up to something, and it made him uneasy. In the wake of its director's suicide, the Intelligence Division had been placed under military jurisdiction, meaning that Gloop was in charge. And no matter how many spies he placed or how many sting operations he attempted, the enemy had a maddening ability to always get behind him. They could not possibly _know_ when and where he was searching; the simple fact was that Gloop did not have enough men to try to cover the entire planet, which had become his theater of operations. Even a network of millions became a tricky thing to find when one had an entire world to search. Slipping a spy into the enemy camp was his only strategy. But he had only eleven willing agents…all Oompa-Loompas to reduce suspicion and allow easier interaction with the Resistance's largest base of popular support… _eleven_ scattered across every continent on Earth save Antarctica.

It would only be blind luck if one of them was finally picked up and taken back to Resistance HQ. The enemy hid their movements and plans _very_ thoroughly; there were no "hotbeds" where an agent might be posted indefinitely. The Resistance struck and disappeared, and there was no knowing where they would be until after they had already come and gone. So now the spies were circulated through labor camps and other areas where there was likely to be Resistance sympathy, hoping that they would catch some advance notice of a Resistance action and be in position when it came. But so far there had been nothing…in no small part because the field officers were incompetent and cared more about their salaries than their duties…for all Gloop knew, he might have already missed several prime opportunities to get his spies into the enemy ranks. And the Empress was growing impatient.

"Her Majesty will see you know," an orderly said, addressing General Gloop in an imperious tone despite the officer's greater rank. The orderly led the way down a corridor and into one of the Palace's countless reception rooms, Gloop humming along behind in his hoverchair. Veruca Salt stood in front of the window, glaring out at the overcast sky outside. The orderly bowed and left, but the Empress did not turn.

"Your Highness?" Gloop said nervously. Veruca at last deigned to notice him.

"General," she said, her voice cold, "you have been flying your pet Oompa-Loompas from one side of the planet to the other for the last six months. I want results."

Gloop raised a trembling hand to wipe the perspiration from his upper lip. "It is a difficult sing, Your Majesty. Ve do not have any kind of varning…I do not know vere ze Resistance vill be until it is too late." He frowned, angered at his own inability to bring in the rebels. "I do not have solid intelligence…I eiser need more men or more information."

Veruca turned and gave him a patronizing look, leaning back against the window. "So you need a bigger budget. Is that it?"

"I did not say zat, Your Majesty. I only meant zat…" He paused. _What did he mean?_ "I am doing all I can," he said finally, "but it is not enough. Ve are always too late."

"Would it be easier if you were out in the field yourself, overseeing these operations in person?" Veruca asked the question with a seemingly genuine interest, her eyes wide and curious.

"It would be less frustrating," Gloop said honestly, sufficiently troubled that he had forgotten where he was and who he was talking to. "If I had access to recovered intelligence in person, rather than zese sloppy reports, I might have some chance…" he stopped, and glanced down at his own enormous bulk. "But of course zat is impossible," he finished.

"I don't see why," Veruca said innocently. "I think it would be an excellent idea for you to resume field duty, General. As a matter of fact, I wish it. Immediately."

Gloop again peered down at the expanse of his gigantic gut. He pressed a button so that the back of his hoverchair tilted as far forward as it would go, and he made a valiant effort to sit up and stand. It had been at least a year since he had last placed his feet on the floor…and he had gained more weight since. The General grunted and strained, reaching his flabby arms out in front of him in an attempt to create some leverage. But it was of no avail. He slumped back in his chair, exhausted. "Your Majesty…"

"General, I gave you an order." The Empress's expression was as cold as ice. Gloop disgusted her… _sitting there like a giant, overstuffed grub._

"Your Highness…I…I cannot perform field duty in my present…" his voice trailed off fearfully. Veruca Salt said nothing, but the look on her features darkened. She moved swiftly across the room with long, rapid strides, moving to the guard near the door. She said something which the General did not catch, the soldier looking fearful…and then the Empress turned…to reveal the man's 9mm pistol in her right hand. Gloop managed a brief scream of "NO!" before she fired, blood and brains spattering the far wall as the General's head exploded. The hoverchair wobbled backward slightly from the force of the bullet impact and then sat still, listing to one side as the body of its enormous passenger slumped over in the cushioned seat. Veruca tossed the pistol at the guard's feet, distastefully contemplating the mess she had just made.

She glanced back at the guard. "Get someone to clean _that_ up, will you? And have Gloop sent to me as soon as he is ready. He wanted field duty…now he has it." With that, she was gone, leaving the horrified guard staring at the titanic ruin of flesh that had been the first Augustus Gloop. Veruca smirked to herself as she strolled leisurely down the corridor. _Now we'll see if he can't get me some better results._


	22. Six Months Later, Part 2

_Outside Brazzaville, former Republic of the Congo_

For the men in the field, things were not tremendously better. Awolowa Mugabe had been shuttled from one port and airfield to another for the last half a year, his scheme to get rich quick now stretching toward a miserable seventh month. He could get out anytime he wanted… _if he didn't mind a bullet through the head, that was_. But he still could not shake the vision of the beautiful pile of money that would await him if he completed this job; then he could retire to a palace in Fiji surrounded by all the girls and drugs he could ever want.

But for today, at least, he was here…unshaven, dirty, and unkempt…just another of a long line of Oompa-Loompas chained together at the ankle and shuffling toward the gates of another godforsaken mine. A discreet message had undoubtedly been sent to the mine's management already, informing them of who he was, his assumed identity, and why he was there; he would put up a decent show of pretending to work, and the management would put up a decent show of pretending to beat him and call him names. In fact, they might beat him even more than the others…never hard enough to hurt him but enough to make a convincing bruise or two…then, as the victim, he would be all the more likely to garner the trust and sympathy of the mine's community of slaves. The Empress's assassin had not been kidding when she said that the concealed devices Mugabe carried would never be detected…these wonders of microelectronics had been implanted beneath his skin, made of materials which security scanners could not distinguish from the surrounding tissue. He enjoyed using them, though he did not have the chance very often… _James Bond ain't got nutting on me, mon._

He shot a disinterested glance at the sign to one side of the mine's entrance gate as he passed…this particular hole in the earth was known as the Brighton Mine, owned by Chadworth Industries. Which was only natural, because Chadworth Industries owned everything. Mugabe suppressed a snort of derision and focused on making his expression properly sullen and dejected; the prisoners were being herded into a rough square, an intimidating man emerging from the nearest building to give them the standard "work well and you will be treated well" speech. _Dot was a lie, sure enough._ Mugabe glanced around and steeled himself, preparing for another long and fruitless tour of duty. In all the time he had spent in places like this, he had never heard the slightest hint of the Resistance…the usual wild rumors, of course, but nothing serious. And as the prisoners moved toward the open pit of the mine, more hopeless than before, Mugabe's despair became genuine. _I'm gonna spent the rest of my life stuck in holes like dis one._ Little did he know, however, that he was about to get the break he had been waiting for.

A week after Mugabe arrived, another group of slaves was brought in. About half of these were runaways, recaptured somewhere or other in the world…but not all. There were three Oompa-Loompas spread out through the formation who were not like the others; not only were they healthier physically, but there was something different in the way they acted, the way they held themselves. Clearly, these three were captured Resistance fighters, and the guards looked forward to… _acclimating_ …them to their new condition. No beatings were administered on the first day…there would be time and opportunity and time for _that_ soon enough. Instead, the proud trio was allowed to maintain its vestiges of dignity and self-respect for now, to make it all the crueler when these things were stripped away later. Mugabe identified these three at once and made a show of accidentally breaking a work light not long afterward…though the act was anything but accidental…a guard tapped him lightly on the side of the head with a baton for his stupidity, but Mugabe fell to the floor as if struck by a hammer. Their obligatory interaction complete, the guard returned to his post and Mugabe staggered off into the tunnels, ostensibly to find some help with his fractured skull. In reality, however, he spent the rest of the day shadowing the three newcomers, learning where they were stationed and what their work schedule looked like. At last, he was making progress.


	23. Six Months Later, Part 3

_Brighton Mine, lower levels_

His designation was Miner 54-65, his occupation Drill Technician. Despite the fact that he was remarkably intelligent, able to repair almost anything...from the drills to the operating machinery to the lamps and floodlights that provided illumination for the dark cavities of rock that formed their worksite…he was in bondage like the rest of his race, all the men and women and children of the Oompa-Loompas, subjected to the worst kind of torment imaginable. He had only been a small child when Mr. Willy Wonka had died… _committed suicide after the disastrous Golden Ticket affair, they said…_ and only afterward the bad things began to happen. A man named Chadworth bought up all of Wonka's properties, as there had been no heir to leave them to; Chadworth might well have had the Oompa-Loompas work as his slaves, but they fled from the factory. Later they were found by London police and were forced to move back to Loompaland, since they didn't have proper papers. He dimly remembered being shipped back by plane, watching as the people built treehouses, and trying to eat a disgusting caterpillar mashed up with things he knew were not even edible. It was a horrible change from the happy lifestyle the Oompa-Loompas had been accustomed to: eating what they wanted, having as much as they wanted, being employed in good and honest jobs, singing, dancing, and making jokes. But in Loompaland, no one could make jokes, or sing, or dance. They were simply too sad. Mr. Wonka had been their savior and friend. They had given him their services because he had been good to them. But now he was gone.

From there, it only got worse; the jungle was burned down, forcing the Oompa-loompas to flee again. They hid in rocky crags, and could not even find the nasty caterpillars to eat. Many of the elder Loompas died of starvation and illness, and the younger Loompas mourned their passing. Then the bounty hunters, then the mean corporations, then the mines. And now he was here: 54-65. His real name forgotten, his individuality a distant memory. And yet, he still tried to have an optimistic perspective. _At least I'm not one of those Oompa-Loompas working in the refineries_ , he thought, opening a toolbox as he knelt beside a large drill rig. He opened a rusty access panel to check the circuits as his mind drifted. _At least I don't have to work in the scalding heat and have my eyes burned out, and I don't have to worry about getting used as fuel if I suddenly keel over_. He shivered at the thought. That's how his mother and grandfather had gone, and...

"Keep working!" the voice came from behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see the shiny black boots of the Manager, and raised his eyes to stare directly at the gas mask that obscured the larger man's face. "Get to it!"

The Loompa nodded and looked away, remembering his place. He turned back to the panel, automatically selecting a handful of tools to make the necessary repairs.

No one dared to refuse the Manager, no one dared to contradict him. Though he was just one of the many slave drivers in the facility, he was related to one of the most powerful men in the world, and could have anyone who displeased him gutted sooner than he could say 'oops'. This wasn't a problem...most of the time. The Manager wandered the great expanse of the corporation's facilities endlessly, spending little more than a few minutes at each station he encountered. It was not enough time to make him angry, in most cases anyway. There had been times when an Oompa-Loompa had become so weary that he could no longer perform efficiently; if he made a mistake, the Manager made him pay dearly for it, either by punishment or execution. This constant fear was shared by all the Oompa-Loompas, but it pressed especially heavy on the Drill Technician. The Manager decided that he would observe the Loompa at work… _Probably to make sure I don't sabotage anything_ …and so was following him. The Loompa began to sweat as he sorted through the toolbox and tried to calm himself. "Wouldn't it be wonderful," he muttered lowly as he worked, "if none of this had ever happened? If Mr. Wonka somehow survived and was still alive today...we wouldn't be here." A hazy memory of a magical place arose in his mind, some kind of room that had acres of grass and trees and bushes and flowers and a chocolate river...the memory faded as he finished the repairs, slamming the panel shut with a clang.

The Manager looked down to him expectantly, dark eyes glittering through the visor of his mask. "All done?"

The Drill Technician coughed. "Yes, sir; it should be functional now."

The other pressed a button on the side of the rig, and he was instantly gratified with a rumble from inside the machine, which grew steadily louder as it warmed up. He nodded to the Oompa-Loompa. "Come."

54-65 nodded wearily, collecting his tools before turning to follow. "Right away, Mr. Vincent."

Despite his title of Drill Technician, 54-65 felt he would better be termed General Handyman. One damaged device after another passed through his nimble fingers as his shift wore on interminably…though slaves did not possess a regular work schedule, they were allowed a few hours to eat and sleep every night. This was how the days were measured, if one wanted to put it that way…though down here there were no days, just an endless series of work sessions interspersed with a few hours of fitful sleep. The Manager eventually departed and left 54-65 under the care of a particularly foul-tempered guard… _Mr. Vincent was related to the great Charles Chadworth himself, and so he never had to pull an all-night shift._ But the Drill Technician was left struggling with a blocked steam pipe until long after his designated group of slaves had returned to the filthy and overcrowded hole they called a sleeping area, and a new group of slaves arrived to fill the "night shift." Finally, the jammed valve that had hindered his efforts broke free, and an exhausted 54-65 was at last allowed to stumble away toward the sleeping pit of his particular group.

He stopped at what passed for a kitchen along the way, to find nothing more than a cold bit of watery broth at the bottom of the soup pot and a few moldy hunks of hard bread that had been thrown away on the floor. He picked up two of these and picked off the worst of the greenish fuzz as he stumbled, bleary and sticky-eyed, toward the sleeping area; not much of the bread was edible, but the small amount he managed was better than nothing. He had just thrown aside the hardest and least edible fragments when he became aware of someone coming down the dark passage toward him. It was one of the new slaves, and 54-65 automatically drew to a wondering halt as he watched the other pass, his back straight and his head high. The Drill Technician shook his head… _Have I ever been able to walk tall and proud like that?_ _I wonder how long_ that _will last, once that fellow gets his first couple of beatings_. 54-65 had endured far less punishment than many of the workers at Brighton Mine, the byproduct of being both valuable and cooperative, but he would never forget the abuse he _had_ received, comparatively mild though it was. And as he watched the new slave disappear down the passage, walking proudly where his fellows cowered, 54-65 felt a sudden rage building in his weary body. _I've always tried to look on the bright side, but I've been kidding myself! That was the way for any man, even an Oompa-Loompa, to walk! Not shrinking aside for fearing of having his head caved every time someone passed!_

54-65 stumbled furiously to his sleeping spot and collapsed, falling unconscious almost instantly despite the hard rock he had for a bed. But his anger did not fade. It continued to seethe through the next day and the one after; he still performed his jobs willingly, but the guards wondered at the dark glower which constantly occupied his face. And as his mind raged, the word began to spread. No one knew where it originated, but it spread like wildfire…delivered in subtle codes over scanty meals, spoken aloud while the roar of machinery concealed it from the guards, whispered almost silently in the filthy rooms where the slaves spent their short hours of rest. When 54-65 heard the news, he felt something like an electrical current shoot through him, but his face did not register anything at all. "Here you go," he said, holding up the tool that the other Oompa-Loompa had pretended to drop…he had never seen the other in his life before.

"Thanks," the other said, and then he was gone.

Despite his hesitation, 54-65 was at the exact place and time that the other had told him…a large space, almost resembling a hall, which had resulted from the excavation of a massive vein of rich ore. The lucky strike had not lasted long, leaving only this odd cave which suddenly branched off from the passage outside. But it was perfect for what 54-65 had been told would be happening tonight. Two Oompa-Loompas stood guard outside the entrance, two more stationed further down the passageway where they would signal if any guards approached. But it was unlikely…this was an old section of the mine, no longer in use, and patrols here were infrequent. 54-65 stepped cautiously between the guards and entered the space beyond, freezing instantly in shock. Several hundred Oompa-Loompas were standing in a tight crowd inside the cave, leaving nothing more than some standing room near the entrance. 54-65 almost turned around and left right then…this was nothing short of dangerous. So many absent from the sleeping areas was _sure_ to draw attention, and there would undoubtedly be a full security detail down here in no time. But then someone at the front of the chamber started to speak, and the Drill Technician stopped.

"Time is short," a voice said, "so I must make this brief. Virgil, if you please." Something was happening at the front of the room…in spite of himself, 54-65 turned around and stepped up onto a small rock, still needing to stretch onto the tips of his toes to see over the crowd. The three Oompa-Loompas who had come in several days before were standing at the front of the chamber, and the seemingly obese man on the left was unzipping his jumpsuit. His belly disappeared as he reached in and withdrew three dark green wads of clothing, which had been positioned to resemble natural weight. Without pretense, all three Loompas then stripped down to their underwear, throwing their workers' garb aside and dressing themselves in dark green jumpsuits with white patches sewn onto the shoulders. The presence of the patches drew cheers from some of the crowd, though 54-65 only dimly recognized them. _Some sort of Resistance sign_. "In three days," the leader said, his face now set in a heroic portrait of strength and confidence, "we shut this mine down. You will be free…free to choose. If you wish to flee to the countryside, no one will stop you. But if you wish to strike back at your oppressors, I implore you to join with us…the African Resistance…and take the fight to the enemy! Who will join us?!" Cries of affirmation broke out at this, but one Oompa-Loompa stepped forward.

"Don't listen to him, damn you! He's going to get us all killed!"

The leader shrugged. "He's right. There's a chance that we may all die down here. But would you rather die cowering under the lash or on your feet…killing your oppressors?!" The cheers renewed, and the dissenter returned to his place with a grumble. Undoubtedly he would not be the only one…and there were surely a great many that knew of this meeting tonight but had not attended. It was exceedingly unlikely, however, that any of them would inform the guards. The Resistance had lookouts in place, ready to disperse the gathering before security arrived…and if the informer was not punished by the guards for giving them false information, the would-be betrayer would _certainly_ be punished by his fellow slaves. Out in the world, there were many Oompa-Loompas who made their living by selling out their own kind. But in here, such things were a certain ticket to an early and improvised grave.

The Resistance leader raised the crowd into several more cheers and then the meeting ended abruptly, all of the gathered slaves disappearing quickly and quietly into the surrounding passages. 54-65 was among them, strange and terrible new emotions burning even more powerfully in his breast: _He was going to fight. He was going to be free._ And as he lay down to sleep on nothing but rock and a ragged blanket, having slipped past the guard into his sleeping place, that knowledge helped make his hard bed seem a little more comfortable.


	24. Six Months Later, Part 4

There was one Oompa-Loompa who did not return to the sleeping area but instead headed into the upper mine, trying to find a place where the device embedded in his cerebrum would be able to transmit. He could not keep himself from grinning…at last he had the chance he had been waiting for! Reaching a small communications shack at the bottom of the central pit, he sauntered casually up to the steps. "Where the hell do you think _you're_ going, little man?!" the guard outside said, aggressively whipping his baton out of its holster.

Mugabe stopped and smirked at him. "Check my prison numbah, mon."

The guard's eyes narrowed. "You're him?"

"De one an' only." The guard stepped aside, allowing Mugabe into the communications building. At a thought, interfaces flared to life in Mugabe's vision, a heads-up-display which was projected directly onto his retinas. He grinned…it reminded him of a video game. _All dot's missin' is a big-oss gun and a little ting to show me where it's pointin'._ He shook off the thought. The same conduit that carried the phone line also carried an internet connection and radio signal, none of which would otherwise be available underground...now tapped into the local network, he could transmit directly to his overseers back in England. At a slight flick of his eyes, a keyboard made of blue light appeared in the air, visible only to Mugabe himself. To any observer, he would have looked quite insane as his fingers danced in the air, arbitrarily coming down to poke at different bits of nothingness. In the name of efficiency, Mugabe's message was exceedingly brief: RVLT BRIGTN MINE BRZVL: 3 DAYS. His eyes flicked to the square on his vision labeled "Send," the former drug dealer still wondering at the fact that he essentially had a computer and modem installed in his head…a spinning icon appeared to let him know that the device was working, and then the words appeared on his vision "Transmission Complete." Within twenty seconds, a reply was received: WELL DONE. INFIL RESIST ALL COST. He had already known what the message would be, but now it was official…and the real work began. Mugabe felt nothing but elation as he left the building and headed back down to join his fellows; as he reached the sleeping area, another of the slaves who had been at the meeting sat up suddenly.

"Where were _you_?"

Mugabe shrugged. "Call o' nature, mon. You wan' me to do it in heah or out deah?" The other seemed satisfied with this answer and allowed Mugabe to pass, the drug dealer taking a deep whiff of the scent of sweaty, unwashed bodies pressed close together. Tonight at least, he thoroughly enjoyed the repulsive smell…it represented everything he was going to leave behind. Soon he would be free and a member of the Resistance…then all that would be left was locating Bucket. Indeed, most of his work was still ahead of him, but it all seemed much more tolerable now that he had at last taken the vital first step. He had a way in with the enemy.

Besides the uniforms, two other things had emerged from beneath the jumpsuit of the Resistance fighter named Virgil: a tiny relay device, and an even smaller transmitter. On his way up to his assigned work site the next day, Virgil himself made a detour: the same communications building where Mugabe had contacted his superiors the night before. A miniscule light on the relay turned green, letting the Resistance member know that the device had successfully tapped into the enemy's communications systems and established a clear line to the surface. As soon as it lit up, he found a safe spot to conceal his tiny piece of equipment, somewhere it would not be noticed for the next seventy-two hours. His work done, Virgil continued on to a day of hard labor. Every swing of his pick was degradation, every emaciated and dying slave he passed an outrage, but he worked hard and did not give the guards any reason to strike him. He only had to last three days…and then the tables would be turned.


	25. Resistance, Part 1

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

 **A/N** : Thanks to readers _Turrislucidus_ and _Spacetea_ for their continued comments and support! We hope you continue to enjoy the unfolding of the story.

* * *

 _London_

The headquarters of Chadworth Industries was the tallest building in the world. A ring of six smaller towers, each structure holding a particular subdivision, encircled the massive central office, a giant needle of glass which stretched toward the heavens like a modern Tower of Babel. Just below the decorative spire which served as the building's crown was the chief executive's office, a vaulted glass hall which ran the length of the narrow top floor. From this lofty position, all of London…and indeed much of southeastern England…stretched out in vast panorama on all sides, a commanding view that seemed more fit for an emperor than a business executive. Even the room itself had an air of authority: the elevator opened at the far end from the chief executive's desk, compelling any visitors to walk the full length of the lofty chamber. The man himself was seated behind an enormous desk, raised slightly on a sort of dais at the north end of the room, which required two steps up before one stood on a level with him. The air of royalty, however, was hardly inappropriate; as head of Nova Britannia's chief military contractor and the largest corporation in human history, the CEO of Chadworth Industries was among the most powerful men in the world. Currently, this man was Charles Lavernius Chadworth, brother of the ill-fated JR…the eldest Chadworth brother had seen the end of the hated Willy Wonka, only to die in a Resistance plot a decade later. His successor Charles was the stockiest of the three Chadworth brothers, solidly-built and now acquiring some weight as he aged. His jaw was heavy and square but well formed, his dark hair cut short…though he was clean shaven, there was always a faint blue hint of recessed stubble that would quickly grow out into a beard given the opportunity. When he spoke, his voice was at once gruff and commanding, coarsened by his fondness for tobacco…and, at present, his displeasure.

"So there's going to be an uprising at one of _my_ facilities…and you want me to ignore it?" Charles said, addressing the flat holographic image that hung in the air above his desk.

"Brighton Mine, to be exact," replied the hovering face of Minister Mike Teavee, who often served as the government's private liaison in matters of national security. "Outside Brazzaville, former Republic of the…"

"I know where it is, Minister," Charles growled. "My brother Vincent runs it. What I want to know is why exactly we should let our labor force escape."

Teavee's neutral expression did not change. "It is a matter of the highest importance."

"You're going to have to do better than _that,_ " said a third voice, this from the flat representation of Vincent Chadworth which also hovered over the desk.

Teavee either did not notice Vincent's failure to use an honorific or, more likely, did not care. The Minister let out a gentle sigh, the time lost in explanations seemingly more important to him than the possible compromise of state secrets. "As the facility in question does belong to your family, I will _permit_ you access to certain details of the government's plan. This information, however, must naturally remain in the strictest confidence."

"Here are the basics: Central Intelligence has a spy in place at Brighton," Vincent said, cutting off Teavee's words. "He arrived a little over a week ago, and the government wants him to go free without drawing suspicion. The question is why."

Teavee was as calm and neutral as ever. "This spy has been searching for a way into the Global Resistance Movement for the past six months. Any attempts to insert him as some extraordinary character…a terrorist, for example…will most certainly lead to the compromising of his identity in short order. He must be unremarkable…just another refugee or rescued prisoner or freed slave. We have received word that the Resistance is planning a mass breakout from Brighton in roughly forty-eight hours, and it must be successful so that our agent can slip into the rebel camp unnoticed, just one more face out of hundreds. His ultimate mission is to locate the fugitive General Bucket and the main Resistance fortress; once he has done this, we will break the rebellion's back with a single, precise stroke. But in order to make his cover perfect and to convince the rebels that they have indeed won their intended victory, the escape must be convincing."

"In other words, some of our men will have to serve as cannon fodder," Charles said.

"They will die for the best cause, I assure you," Teavee said, his face and voice displaying roughly the same level of empathy as a combat drone. Charles began to nod slowly, and Vincent's face darkened.

"Brother, sacrifices in combat are one thing. But this…"

"The guard will be reduced by a third," Charles said flatly. "Draw names randomly for who gets relieved and who gets to play as the losing team."

Vincent's expression was nothing short of terrifying. "I have one question, Minister. Assuming I'm willing to let some of my men die for this stunt…how many of the slaves have to reach the extraction point alive?"

"Enough to avoid suspicion," Teavee said calmly. "If our man staggers in as the only survivor, it will naturally raise questions…so will wiping out only a portion of the escapees when you could easily have killed them all. You must therefore limit your forces, again to make the escape believable. I would say that you could kill or recapture anywhere from half to two-thirds of the slaves with little consequence, however, so long as you make sure our man is not one of them. Naturally, the government will see to it that Brighton's slave population is replaced with nothing but the finest…and you will be compensated for both lost employees and working hours."

Vincent hardly looked placated, but he said nothing more. Charles was nodding again. "Thank you for your time, Minister. Your explanation has cleared things up quite well, if not palatably. I will see to it that everything is in order."

The Minister gave a curt nod, and his image faded. Vincent's dark expression remained. "I will not give the command myself…but I will follow orders. Say the word, and it is done."

"The word is given," Charles replied. "I'm sorry, Brother, but this is all for the best, I'm sure. When you asked about the escapees…"

"I was planning on setting the gunships on them once they got out past the perimeter."

Charles smiled slightly. "Be my guest, but remember what the Minister said: don't kill _too_ many. Restrict yourself to two aircraft…give the little bastards half a chance. Bear in mind that what _you_ don't clean up will be taken care of later anyway. And besides…look on the bright side…this way you'll get some new labor instead of that broken-down lot you're dealing with currently."

"Small comfort for my employees."

"Necessary sacrifices, Vincent," Charles replied calmly. "Necessary sacrifices."


	26. Resistance, Part 2

_Kinshasa, former Democratic Republic of the Congo_

On the designated day, at the designated hour, four bombs exploded in rapid succession. One detonated outside an Army barracks, one in the British Airways terminal at Kinshasa International Airport, one in the motor pool of the city police, and the last near the city's capitol building. All four devices were positioned to maximize property damage while doing as little harm to bystanders as possible…a hallmark of the Resistance. As the capital and military hub of the Central African District, Kinshasa would naturally be the first target of a mass uprising…which is exactly what the district governor believed was coming. Naturally, Kinshasa went into lockdown. Directly across the Congo River, Brazzaville followed suit. With all military and police forces deployed, local Resistance cells had no hope of penetrating the cities…fortunately, however, this was never the plan. With the enemy fully occupied and certain to remain that way for some while, the wretched slave pit known as Brighton Mine had to rely on nothing but its immediate security cordon for defense. And while this might have been sufficient to repel an external attack, the area's Resistance commander was certain the mine could not withstand an assault _from within_.

 _Brighton Mine_

There was an electronic beep, and Amisi reached into the breast pocket of his worker's jumpsuit. Since he had given his brief address in the cave three days before, this was the moment he had awaited. The tiny device in his hand, a miniaturized radio receiver, now displayed a red light at one end. The bombs had detonated across the river. His support and extraction teams were on their way. _It was now or never._

Amisi and his two companions were only the last of the vanguard…the Resistance had roughly twenty men scattered throughout the mine, all of them preparing to enact scenes like that which the rebel officer was himself about to cause. Amisi grinned and stood up from where he was working, the two Oompa-Loompas flanking him rising as well. They fell back as he approached the mouth of this particular passage, ready to spring to his aid should he need them. A single guard was stationed here, and Amisi strode fearlessly toward the soldier, a pickaxe held loosely at the rebel's side. "Hey, jackass!" Amisi said loudly, slaves on all sides turning to stare at this newcomer who had surely lost his mind.

The guard whirled. " _WHAT_ DID YOU JUST SAY, MIDGET?!"

"I called you a jackass," Amisi replied calmly, "though I was secretly thinking that your father was the bastard son of a dog and your mother was a whore."

" _WHY YOU_ …" the guard raised his baton, preparing to deliver a blow that would have surely crushed Amisi's skull…only the Oompa-Loompa was faster. The pickaxe whipped out in a horizontal motion, lodging in the side of the guard's knee; Amisi twisted the weapon and wrenched it free, and the guard fell with a scream of pain, fumbling for his pistol. " _YOU LITTLE FU_ …" The bellowed curse ended sharply as Amisi swung the pickaxe down in an overhand motion, cleaving straight through the front of the guard's helmet. The man collapsed, though two more came barreling around the corner, one of them with his gun drawn.

"JENSEN?!" one of them shouted, seeing the body on the ground…Amisi rolled from behind the corpse, the fallen guard's sidearm in hand, and dropped each man with two precise shots to the chest. Amisi stood up and ripped off his jumpsuit, revealing the green uniform beneath. He pointed upward…toward the surface, toward the sun, toward hope.

"Freedom awaits, brothers," he said. It required no shout, no grand delivery. The slaves stood and stared at him for a moment, seemingly paralyzed, and then something like a shiver passed through the assembled miners. An angry murmur swelled to a buzz and then a roar; as one, suddenly every throat was filled with cheers of affirmation and cries of savage fury. Amisi turned and began to stride forward. Behind him came a living tide of Oompa-Loompas, their vengeance long overdue. When the slaves reached the next unit of guards, carnage ensued. Amisi fired his pistol as fast as possible, knocking down two of the men before they could fire…the others started shooting wildly into the oncoming crowd, every shot lethal. Twenty Oompa-Loompas fell in rapid succession, but it did not slow the miners for an instant; like men possessed, they charged over the fallen corpses of their brethren and dragged the guards off their feet. It might have been a scene from a horror film: various implements rose and fell with brutal efficiency, picks and hammers slinging blood as they came up from the bodies of the victims. The guards were beaten until they were well past dead, at which point their guns and batons were swiftly taken and the enraged slaves headed on to the next target. Amisi was hard-pressed to maintain any kind of control and quickly stopped trying…while he lamented the heinous bloodbath, there was nothing to be done for it. The slaves would do whatever it took to secure their freedom, and many of them would necessarily die in trying.

Drill Technician 54-65 heard gunshots. At first he did not react; it would not be the first time that a slave had gotten himself casually executed for some offense. Only the fire continued, and then screams echoed from a nearby passage. 54-65 stood up and fixed a wary eye on the closest junction as the sounds of violence moved closer and closer. A guard suddenly staggered out into the passage, blood pouring from a deep wound on his right leg…he aimed a pistol back down the passageway and fired as he frantically yelled something into his radio. There was another gunshot, this one from further down the corridor, and the man's head snapped back as his forehead exploded in a spray of gore. He collapsed, and a dozen Oompa-Loompas swarmed over him, grabbing his weapons and equipment. More gunfire echoed from nearby, and 54-65 suddenly found himself walking forward toward the rioters…he could not remember dropping his tools, but when he looked down they were no longer there. He snatched up a pickaxe that was leaning against the wall of the passageway, his features splitting into a snarl that he never could have imagined would appear on his face. And while his mind still wondered at what he was doing, his body was running alongside the rebelling slaves, up the passageway, up toward the surface that he had not seen in so long. One word burned in his mind: _Freedom_.

He did not remember much of what happened afterward. He was just one of a vast mob of bodies charging through the passages of the mine, somewhere in the middle of the group. Shouts and cries and curses came from all sides, and the mob continued to grow. Soon there were young children and old women, seemingly everyone holding a weapon of some kind…gunfire echoed deafeningly in the tunnels as both slaves and guards fired. Members of the mob would fall suddenly as they were struck by bullets; if they were wounded, someone helped them, and if they were dead, the body was left where it fell. 54-65 brandished his pickaxe with a bloodlust he could never have conceived, yet he found himself redundant…he saw nothing of the guards save for the gruesome messes which were trampled underfoot by the escaping slaves. The tunnels gave way to wider tunnels, then caverns, and then suddenly the sunlight was pouring down from above, all but blinding the fleeing slaves. They were in the central pit, the open expanse of blue sky above them. Other vast groups of slaves were pouring out from the other tunnels, a living tide coming from all sides. All of them were running for the narrow paths which zigzagged up the sides of the pit…the elevators were too slow and too dangerous, and so no one bothered with them. Now the slaves sprinted up the switchbacks in dangerous numbers, one or two careless individuals plummeting to their deaths in the mad race for the top…no one pushed or shoved, but the sheer number of bodies ensured there was no room to spare. Gun nests fired wildly into the press of bodies…dozens of slaves fell, but more kept coming. And a new sound split the air: the drone of propellers. The moment Amisi had clear sky above him, he pressed the single button on his transmitter. Tactical drones painted in dark green Resistance livery swung low overhead, the mine's guard towers erupting in fire and thunder. Several well-placed bombs flattened the gate and large sections of the perimeter fence, and the liberated slaves now poured out into the countryside, following the Resistance soldiers.


	27. Resistance, Part 3

In two rooms several thousand miles apart, two men watched the feed being relayed to them from an orbiting satellite, the carnage at Brighton Mine unfolding silently and predictably across their screens. Disgusted, Vincent Chadworth turned away, not even bothering to watch as his air cavalry arrived and began decimating the fleeing prisoners. Charles Chadworth, on the other hand, watched until the end, the mine now silent and empty save for some scattered fires and the still forms of scores of men and Oompa-Loompas alike. Charles reached up with one hand, gently massaging the bridge of his nose as he switched off the satellite feed and returned to the report on his desk. _Necessary sacrifices._

The ploy had worked. The uprising at Brighton Mine had been a victory on paper…the facility would be shut down for some months, and a huge number of prisoners had been freed. But it did not feel like a victory; it had come at the cost of two tactical drones, seven operatives, and nearly 40% of the people the operation had been intended to liberate. Among the fallen was Lieutenant Amisi, who had stopped to help an injured slave and had been shot in the back in the process. The African Resistance had misjudged the response time of Chadworth's Security Division, and had paid a dear price for it. But there was no suspicion. Someone _did_ mutter the line "It's almost like they knew we were coming," but it was nothing more than frustration, and no one heard him.

After the necessary security checks and isolation period, the slaves were welcomed into the local Resistance camp. As ever, all efforts were made to locate and reunite family members, and so when several people came forward with information that their families were with General Bucket in Eastern Europe, they were scheduled for accommodation on the next available transport. Among them was a man looking for his brother and two sons, a man with dreadlocks and a heavy Loompanese accent. His name did not match up with any databases, but this was hardly unusual; between the government's sloppiness and the desire by many Oompa-Loompas to conceal their identities, it was no surprise that no trace of this particular individual could be found on the enemy's networks. And though the transport had already reached its quota of passengers, the Resistance officer took pity on the man and managed to free up one more seat. As he left, thanking the officer again and again, Awolowa Mugabe almost felt guilty about abusing the goodwill of others. Almost.


	28. Resistance, Part 4

_Resistance Base "Homestead," Balkan Mountains_

SC-80 stood on one of the observation posts overlooking the front gate of the fortress, a Resistance uniform on his shoulders and a Loompa-sized MP5 submachine gun in his hands. Though he was technically exempt from guard duty as an officer, the Captain still volunteered for it; he loved being outdoors in a place like this, seeing the sky and smelling the trees. _A natural reaction to having spent most of my life inside a space colony,_ he thought, but the idea immediately troubled him. It seemed hard to believe…the Lunar Base seemed like something from another life, another time. Which in a way it was, but it disturbed SC-80 how much of it he had already forgotten.

At one time, he had known the layout of much of the facility; now he could only remember bits and pieces. _It might have all been a dream_ , he mused idly as he gazed across the landscape, _perhaps the others and I really did come from New Atlantis…or perhaps there isn't a New Atlantis, either. Perhaps we just had our brains addled in an airplane crash, and we have always been members of the Resistance._ He shook his head. It was not a serious line of thought, but it was honestly terrifying how little there was to connect them to their true lives among the stars. Each of the four Loompas had a single uniform, their only proof that their home had existed or ever could exist in some timeline or other; aside from that, they only had their physical similarities and their numerical designations, both of which…just as they had explained to their fellow Resistance members…could have been adopted rather than given to them had birth. _Not birth,_ the Captain reminded himself. _Inception_. He swore aloud and shrugged his jacket a bit tighter about his shoulders, glaring up at the overcast sky with sudden dislike rather than appreciation. Suddenly the world that stretched away on all sides was far too big; he wanted to be back down in the caves with a solid roof of earth over his head. He was tired, he was cold, and above all he was confused…but he should not have been. _Whatever happens, we're going home,_ he thought, glaring out at the forest with resentment. Truth be told, the Captain very much wanted a drink at that moment.

Fortunately, however, something happened just then to dispel his increasingly dark musings. The steel decking of the observation platform transmitted the vibration of approaching footsteps, and then a soldier appeared from around the corner. "I've been sent up to relieve you, sir. General would like to see you in his office," the man said, not the slightest bit fazed by using an honorific on someone less than half his height.

"Thank you," SC-80 replied with a nod, surrendering his position at the railing and making his way back along the walkway and into the interior of the base. He descended through a series of stairways and narrow tunnels to the motor pool, drawing up and watching as the main gate opened to admit a long line of trucks. Most of them were supply carriers, but the three in front contained something else entirely. The tailgates dropped and waiting soldiers helped freed prisoners down from the backs of the trucks. They were mostly Oompa-Loompas, with a few "Big Folk" thrown in; while they had been hooded during their journey, they must have had their mandatory isolation and security checks performed already. The hoods were removed as they left the truck, allowing the group to see where they were. Many of the faces under the hoods were skeletally thin, obviously freed slaves, and they stared around at the walls of the motor pool as if they were entering the Promised Land. SC-80 smiled to himself at their looks of wonder; if he had time later, he would have to see where they had come in from. Most likely they had been brought up from the Congo, liberated during the recent attack on Chadworth's mining operations. It was still up for debate whether Command considered said attack a success or not; the Captain knew enough tactical precedents to argue it either way, but he kept his opinions to himself.

He was just turning to head down into the main tunnels when something stopped him. He looked back at the crowd of liberated slaves and was struck by a vague sense of unpleasant recognition as his eyes passed over the face of one particular Oompa-Loompa standing near the back of the second truck. The man turned, now looking toward the Resistance officer who was welcoming the group to its new home, his features hidden by a curtain of filthy hair. The Captain shook his head… _It's just your imagination_. He turned and headed down the tunnel.

Ten minutes later, he was approaching the door to General Bucket's office. The two soldiers outside recognized him immediately, one of them opening the door for him; the Captain nodded to the soldier and stepped inside, stopped in front of the General's desk and saluted. "You wanted to see me, General?"

Bucket nodded. "Indeed I did." He stood up from his chair and crossed to the situation table, the Captain climbing up on a stool beside him. General Bucket opened a packet in his left hand and pulled out several black-and-white photographs, which he spread on the table. "This is it, Captain. My man inside Chadworth Industries reports that the repairs to your ship have been finished, and the company hopes to make orbit by the end of the month." The pictures were much like those Bucket had showed him six months before, only they now showed an intact spacecraft rather than a wreck. Deepstar Five had indeed been put back together, though many of the replacement components did not match the size and shape of the originals. Even the repaired hull plating was different, resulting in a Frankensteinian mishmash of Wonka and Chadworth construction. _She's even uglier than before,_ the Captain thought with a grin, but the humor only lasted for a brief moment.

"They intend to fly her?"

The General nodded, withdrawing the rest of the packet's contents and spreading them out on the table. "Apparently, your Mr. Wonka managed to impress them. The ship has been moved from the main company labs to the Chadworth aeronautics facility near Heathrow Airport." The General looked sideways at the Captain. "According to our agent, Chadworth Industries went absolutely wild when they opened up that ship; they've been bringing in experts from all over the world to look at it. Our man could not say much about it…told me I wouldn't believe him if he let on what they thought they had. Care to elaborate?"

The Captain smiled. "You wouldn't believe me either, sir. I'm afraid I'll have to show you."

"Well, that's where _this_ comes in," Bucket said, unfolding a set of plans. "This is a complete map of the facility where they're keeping the ship. Right here, in fact, in this hangar." He pointed. "It's in the middle of the structure, but has a set of overhead doors which will allow you to pilot the vessel straight out into open air. You and your men are the only choice of retrieval team we have, unless you could familiarize some of our people with operating the vehicle."

The Captain shook his head. He was quite certain that he could _not_ familiarize Resistance personnel with how to operate the spacecraft, and he did not intend to. _The moment we're onboard, it's straight into space and right back into the past._ "It's not that I don't trust Resistance personnel, sir. But, truthfully, I couldn't train anyone else…even if I had to. She was a prototype, and even I won't remember half the controls until I'm actually back in the cockpit. I'll be the one at the helm…the man who died in London was…"

"Your pilot. Yes, I remember." Bucket briefly placed a hand on the Captain's shoulder, and then turned back to the plans. "Well, that settles that much. You and your boys will serve as retrieval team. That being the case, I would like to acquaint you with a possible mission profile I've worked up. Sadly, my inside man is no longer present to assist you once you reach the facility; Chadworth Industries was getting suspicious, and so he was compelled to take leave. Before he left, however, he managed to install a lovely little uplink into the facility's computer network, allowing us to tap in and block security feeds, open doors, whatever you need. Obviously you'll have to move quietly, but you're small enough to use the air ducts to move about. No offense, of course."

"None taken."

"Once you actually reach the spacecraft, a device has been fitted allowing you to open the launch doors from inside the cockpit…and we, meanwhile, can trigger every alert and warning right across the board…send the facility's workers into a panic. By the time they figure out what's happening, you'll already be away. How fast is she?"

"Not fast enough to outrun fighters. She's not that aerodynamic."

"Well, we can take care of that, too. We'll use the same communications scrambler that got the two of us out of the Tower so successfully. The point is that we're not worried about alerting the enemy once you're airborne; Sakagawa's computer genius and a squadron of our jets can take care of anything the enemy throws at you. But if we tip off the enemy before you _reach_ the ship, well, things will get complicated."

"Insertion point?"

Bucket hesitated. "There is one, but you may not like it. Trying to break into the facility is almost impossible…cameras, dogs, electric fences, motion sensors…the whole works. There is a daily cargo delivery, however, which might allow you to smuggle yourselves in. The crates are scanned, of course, but we have ways to beat that…all you have to do is say the word, and we'll prepare a container. The problem, obviously, is that you will be locked inside a crate; if anything goes wrong, you won't stand a chance. And the scanning devices don't operate on the local facility network. We won't be able to tap in and give you a free pass; if the box doesn't fool the scanner on its own, you'll be done for. Obviously, we will put every possible effort into ensuring that _doesn't_ happen…but all the same you would be trusting your lives to a crate."

"But it _is_ the safest way in?"

"Comparatively speaking, yes."

SC-80 nodded. "Let's do it. We don't have time to try anything else."

"For which you have my deepest apologies," the General replied. "You should have known about this weeks ago, but the decision to get the ship flying came down rather suddenly. Until Monday, your vessel was still in pieces all over Europe, components being analyzed by various laboratories. Then a report went up to the CEO, and the next day orders came down that the ship was to be reassembled and prepared for flight immediately."

SC-80's face was grim. "End of the month…that's just over two weeks, sir. And that's without travel time."

"I know. We need to get you on your way to England as soon as possible, once you've had time to brief your people. In the meantime, I'll send Sakagawa on ahead to get things ready." Bucket gathered the various documents and placed them back in their envelope. "This is for you; it's a complete mission brief, but it's not much. I'm sorry it's not more."

"It's enough, General," SC-80 said. "Whatever happens, sir, well…thank you for everything." He felt a sharp twinge, a painful mix of emotions. "When I see Mr. Wonka, I will do all in my power to persuade him to join this fight. I know him, sir, and I am certain that he will agree the time has come for action." SC-80 struggled to smile; the guilt he felt at that lie was much greater than he had imagined it would be. _I only hope we can set things right…then none of it will matter._

"We will be awaiting your signal," Bucket replied solemnly. "In case I don't see you boys again, good luck and Godspeed." He extended a hand, and the Captain took it. Then SC-80 saluted and left the office, a sense of fatalistic anticipation building in his chest. _This is it._

SC-80 immediately headed for the small bunkroom that now served as quarters for himself and the other three members of the Deepstar crew; while they shared the room with eight other Loompas at night, one of them Jonesy, the room was usually empty at this time of day. The Captain radioed the others as he walked, ordering them to meet him…whatever else they might have been doing could wait. The Captain arrived first and commandeered the table in the middle of the empty bunkroom, spreading out the variety of documents that General Bucket had given him. The Doctor was next, followed by RA-48…IP-101 took another ten minutes to arrive, appearing with a broad smile. He reached into the breast pocket of his tunic and plucked out a neatly folded piece of paper, straightening it and setting it on the table with a flourish. "My friends, behold…a genuine…all-original…moderately but evenly worn…ten-pound note! I got it off our friend the history teacher; he said he'd give it to me for free, the old money being worthless and all, but I insisted on giving him an even trade for it. And thus, here it is!" He made another flourish and bowed.

"Is it the right year?" the Doctor asked curiously, picking up the bill.

"Ummm…not _quite_ ," IP-101 said awkwardly as he straightened up. "It's about two years off, but it was the oldest one I could find. Almost nobody down here has pre-War money."

"Well, we'll just have to hope that no one checks the date for a couple of years," the Captain said, taking the note and inspecting it. "Or at least for a couple of hours, anyway. It's irrelevant so long as Charlie Bucket can pass it off at the candy store. With the Golden Ticket contest underway, I'm sure the proprietor won't remember which ten-pound note came from which child. Any risks you can think of, Doctor?"

RP-18 sighed. "After the last run, I'm really not sure you want to ask me that question. But my answer is no; offhand, I can't imagine anyone checks dates on money often enough for it to matter."

"We're still going to go through with it then," RA-48 said quietly, almost to himself. Everyone else at the table, however, turned to look at him.

The Doctor's voice did not lose its calm, but his expression was darker than any the Captain or 101 had ever seen before. "I thought we had already discussed this. I'm always willing to listen, 48, but you're beginning to border on treason."

"Let him speak," the Captain said, somewhat surprised; he had never known the Doctor to censor an opinion before.

"I didn't mean anything by it," 48 said evasively, avoiding eye contact. "I just…"

The Captain slammed his fist down on the table, his calm tone rising to a bellow. The discomfort he had felt earlier was coming back in spades, and he was suddenly furious for some reason he could not understand. "DAMN IT ALL, 48! I WILL NOT HAVE MEMBERS OF MY CREW OPERATING WITH MISGIVINGS ABOUT THE ASSIGNMENT! IF YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY, THEN _SAY IT!_ "

The entire table was shocked by this outburst, but the look of surprise on 48's face quickly hardened into a mask of resolve. "All right, sir. I'll say it. We've been here for just over six months now. It's not as if we have an easy life, but it's not terrible. And there are a lot of things we don't have back home…like children, and dogs, and native cooking, and real trees. General Bucket is waiting for the support of 'New Atlantis' before he makes the big push against Nova Britannia, but we all know he doesn't need it. We can win this war, without fairy tales and magic technology. And then we could live here with the rest of the Oompa-Loompas, and our people would be individuals with different jobs and different faces and different clothes and different everything! A real people again, not just clones grown from a template! And we could go and have wives and children of our very own…" 48's words choked off with a strangled sort of noise, and his head fell forward to rest in one hand. He looked up, almost on the verge of tears. "I'm sorry, Captain…and Doctor…and you too, 101. I'm so sorry, I just…I…I just get to thinking sometimes, you know? I mean I want to go home, of course I do. But when we do, all the pretty girls and the little children just cease to exist! So does Jonesy and all our other friends! So do the rest of our people! It's back to a world of clones, the unnatural price for our survival! As bad as things are in this place, it's still almost better than how they are back home! And I couldn't get on the ship and fly away without at least acknowledging the alternative, without saying it out loud just once, you know? That's all. Just this once, I had to look at it out in the open!"

The Captain sighed heavily; he suddenly felt very tired and about a thousand years older than he really was. "I know, 48," he said, his voice sympathetic. "I really do know. I'm sure we've all been _thinking_ at one time or other. I know I have." His expression became resolute. "But you know well that we can't stay here. Our loyalty to the Fuhrer demands it. And what of all the other things that we would lose if we _stayed?_ What about the peaceful world that the Fuhrer's benevolence has sought to create? Can we just kiss all of _that_ goodbye?" He paused, and his voice softened again. "Allow me to rephrase. I _have_ to take back the ship and try to set the timeline straight. Anyone who will come with me is welcome…and if anyone wishes to stay here, for however brief a time might follow…it will not be held against him. We might have created a branch universe or something, and all of this might just carry on even once we've reset things! Who knows? Anyway, I need your commitments now. Things are moving up, and I have to be in London as soon as possible to retrieve the ship. Chadworth Industries hopes to have her flying by the end of the month."

"I'm with you," IP-101 said.

"And me," added the Doctor.

"And me," finished RA-48. "I…I just had to get it off my chest is all."

"Certainly," the Captain replied. "As far as I'm concerned, that conversation never took place. Now, to the business at hand…" He had not gotten far when there was a knock on the wall, and Jonesy ducked around the doorframe, wearing his usual grin.

"Well, I can see you blokes are doing your part for the war effort and all…playing Monopoly, are we?" He raised a hand. "Just joking, o' course; sorry to butt in, but I forgot this." Jonesy lifted a tool satchel from the end of his bunk; he had been working in the motor pool for the past two months, putting his technical skills to use _legally_ for the first time in his life. He picked it up and left, lifting a hand in farewell as he disappeared around the corner.

"Do you think he heard?" 48 asked quietly after Jonesy was gone.

"Doubt it," the Captain said flatly. "With all respect to him, he isn't the type who would have kept quiet if he did." And with that, SC-80 continued his briefing.


	29. Resistance, Part 5

Awolowa Mugabe was busy for the next several days. After a long shower and a fresh change of clothing, he felt much better and his confidence returned. Soon it would all be over. He spent his first forty-eight hours in the base exploring, walking through the mine corridor by corridor. He looked at _everything_ , the frequent swivels of his head seemingly the wonderment of an awed newcomer. But while he would admit that he was impressed with the development, he was also trying to get the best possible visual of every area. All that he saw was relayed to a recording device behind his right eye, the synthetic bio-chip gathering a continuous stream of information. Once transmitted, the visual feed would be processed by computer to form a complete, three-dimensional map of the Resistance fortress…or at least the civilian sector. Naturally, Mugabe could not be expected to make a tour of the military sector, but it hardly mattered. Any intelligence at all about the main rebel base would be appreciated greatly, and Mugabe was already considering how he would spend his fortune. His walks led him all the way down to the lower cave where the Resistance kept its evacuation tunnel; while he could not actually enter the area, he managed a good, long look at it while chatting with one of the guards. More importantly, he identified a camouflaged set of charges installed in the tunnel ceiling, an emergency measure to seal the passageway to pursuers…retracing his steps through the other main passageways, he soon found such charges in all the tunnels linking the primary caverns. He was glad he had caught this particular piece of information; warned in advance, these safety mechanisms could easily be turned to the service of his overseers.

After forty hours of observation, the recorder had reached capacity; Mugabe was confident he had covered the entire civilian sector thoroughly, and had even managed a look into a few military areas. Now he needed somewhere to transmit. He could not tap into the rebel communications network without raising suspicion…what he required was a single window to the open sky, where he could bounce a signal to an Imperial satellite. And so he headed up. A network of observation platforms lined the mountain's flank, but he was not allowed onto any of these without a military escort…which would have attracted attention. Undaunted, he looked for another way, and quickly found it. Slipping into a restricted area, he located a large ventilation pipe which angled upward through the rock; by climbing up into the base of it, he could see open sky above. It would have been better if he could have climbed even higher, but the embedded display in his vision called attention to several laser tripwires, almost invisible, which crisscrossed the inside of the pipe. And so Mugabe pulled himself up as far as he dared, the vent pipe being really quite spacious for an Oompa-Loompa, and activated his transmitter. The video feed took longer to relay than a simple message, and so he held on for minute after agonizing minute, unable to relieve the burning in his arms as he struggled to remain as still as possible. Finally the transmission was complete, including the brief message he had attached to the beginning; while SC-80 had not recognized Mugabe when he saw him in the motor pool, Mugabe had most certainly recognized the Captain. A new message was received even while the Oompa-Loompa was still transmitting the last of his video record…a final set of orders, not mandatory but a bonus to his contract if he could carry them out. And for the offered price, Mugabe would certainly do his best.

Communication complete, Mugabe slid down and eased himself out of the pipe, making his way out of the maintenance area just as unobtrusively as he had entered. He was on leave for the next few days, as it were, and he was on his way back to the residential area of the caverns with a spring in his step. On the way down, however, he met IP-101. At first there was no recognition; a Resistance soldier rounded the corner ahead, and shot a suspicious glance at Mugabe. "What are you doing up here?"

Mugabe shrugged broadly. "Sorry, boss, I was jus' goin' for a lit'l walk, gettin' a lit'l fresh air, ya know? I's stuffy down deah in dem caves."

Something flashed across the other's face, an expression of surprise. Mugabe looked closer and saw a younger iteration of the man he had recognized in the motor pool, recognition clicking instantly in his own brain. It was not often that one encountered five identical men, and Mugabe certainly had not forgotten. " _You…_ " the pilot growled, his hand involuntarily twitching toward the pistol at his hip.

Mugabe's face split into a grin. "I din' expec' to see you heah, mon…you heah wit de rest o' yo friends?" Mugabe knew perfectly well, but he feigned ignorance. "You remembah me, and dot craz' time we had in London? We should all get togethah sometime, reminisce and all o' dot."

"I remember you were going to shoot us and dump our bodies in the river," 101 said darkly.

Mugabe spread his arms. "Hey, I'm sorry, mon. Dot was anudah life…I foun' Jesus and all dot. You know, convershun when de soul is weak and whatnot? Dey done make me a slave, but den yo' Resistance done break me out. And now here I am, a changed mon." Despite relating the story of his supposed transformation, he sounded bored.

"Congratulations," 101 said, pushing past him. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm on duty."

"Take it easy, mon," Mugabe said, aiming a rude gesture at 101's retreating back. The spy continued back down to the caves, while the pilot continued up to his post on the side of the mountain.

Upon completion of his shift, 101 headed directly to the command center. "I need to see Colonel Carver." The guard nodded and allowed 101 into Carver's office. It was somewhat smaller than the General's, but just as well appointed; 101 stopped in front of the desk and saluted.

Carver nodded to him. "What can I do for you?"

101 did not waste time. "A man named Awolowa Mugabe is here in this base; I assume he arrived with the recent transfer, as my superior mentioned something familiar about one of the new civilians. I can report from firsthand experience that this man used to be a drug dealer and a regular collaborator with the enemy. A few hours ago, I found him snooping around one of the surface access points; when questioned, he gave me some nonsense about 'needing fresh air.' I don't know what he's up to, but I feel we would be well advised to post a tail on him."

Carver leaned forward in his seat, his expression mild. "When you say 'firsthand observations'…"

"I mean, sir, that he held myself and my compatriots at gunpoint, threatened to kill us, and would have done so had it not been for the timely arrival of the police."

Carver's brow lowered. "And you're absolutely sure you have the right man?"

"Positive, sir. He recognized me."

"All right." Carver nodded. "I'll see to it that someone watches him. You said his name was Mugabe, but he may be under an assumed identity. We have a photographic record of all the new transfers, if you're willing to identify him."

"It may not be necessary, sir. He's fairly distinctive: dreadlocks, heavy accent…"

Carver nodded. "Yes, I know the man you mean. Not often you hear a Loompanese accent that pronounced. He's presently quartered with the other new transfers down in the public housing block. And rest assured I _will_ have a man down there to keep an eye on him; he won't be able to go to the loo without it being reported."

101 nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

But though the tail was well advised, just as 101 said, it was also too late. Mugabe's actions were indeed scrutinized closely over the next few days, but he did nothing more interesting than go to the marketplace tunnel and buy food from the vendors. Unfortunately for the Resistance, Mugabe had already completed his mission. Now there was only one more bit of work to be done.


	30. The Blood of Patriots, Part 1

_Disclaimer:_ This is a work of amateur fiction. All trademarks and copyrighted material are the property of their respective holders, including the Roald Dahl estate and Warner Bros. Pictures. The usage of copyrighted material, along with the publication/distribution of this related work, is strictly non-commercial and is not intended to challenge any existing copyright.

 **Author's Note** : Thanks to our many readers, particularly _Squirrela_ and _Turrislucidus_ for their delightful comments! We hope you have been enthralled, enamored, engrossed, and otherwise entertained by the story thus far. We will now return to your regularly scheduled program.

* * *

 _Balkan Mountains, near Resistance Base "Homestead"_

Every assassin tried to be invisible…but it was ultimately an unobtainable goal. At least until now.

As Violet Beauregarde moved through the trees, she continued to wonder at the marvel of technology currently strapped around her waist: a field generator that made her own attempts at stealth look laughable by comparison. It was a duplicate of a device recovered from the spacecraft that had crashed nearly six months ago, a true miracle of technology. She was moving in broad daylight, strolling casually through the forest rather than creeping from cover to cover…yet she could not be seen. She turned her head, the lens attached to her headset allowing her to see the other eleven operatives with her, all of them nothing more than blue outlines. Without the eyepiece, she would not have been able to see anything at all, save for the occasional suggestion of a ripple in the air. There was still sound, of course, readily audible to Violet's trained ears: a faint rustle of feet walking over the leaves and twigs which covered the forest floor, the vaguest whisper of breath. But even these things were no louder than the sigh of a gentle breeze through the foliage, and most would likely have dismissed them as such. Even still, it would not do to get careless.

"Hold up. Rebel patrol," a harsh, crackling voice said in Violet's ear…the microphones resting against each of her soldiers' throats picked up the faintest whisper of speech and turned it into an audible, if unnatural, synthetic voice. The warning came from the scout in the lead, roughly fifty yards ahead; Violet and the others shrank back away from the trail and froze. Their gentle breathing became completely silent as a half-dozen men in dark green uniforms came crunching their way down the trail, the two in the rear talking animatedly with guns held loose at their sides. Violet had the advantage in both stealth and manpower; the little band would have been dead in a heartbeat if she had ordered it. Yet she and the rest of her operatives did nothing more than watch the Resistance soldiers pass before they continued on in the opposite direction, heading along the flank of the mountain to the primary rebel base.

After another fifteen minutes, the scout stopped again, only this time he waited for the rest of the team to catch up to him. "Insertion point's up there," he said, gesturing; several hundred feet further up the slope, several men stood on a sort of balcony which projected from the hillside, a steel walkway stretching out of sight to the next observation post. Behind them was a large protrusion of concrete, which held a massive circular grate; it was from the pipe beneath this grate that Awolowa Mugabe had transmitted a few days before. As the only part of the rebel's ventilation system that the satellites could pinpoint, it was Violet's ticket in. "How do you want to get rid of the guards, My Lady?"

Violet tilted her head, considering. "Where's the nearest perimeter sensor?" The team had been sidestepping rebel ground vibration sensors all morning; there was an entire network of them buried across the area, presently keeping the rest of the army at a distance. But that problem would soon be handled.

The scout was already moving back down the slope. "Rest assured, I'll find one. What do you want me to do when they come to check?"

"Leave them alive, for the moment…let them think a deer ran across it. They can't suspect anything is wrong."

"Yes, My Lady."

"Kaplan, remain behind with Reese. Keep our exit clear."

"Yes, My Lady."

Reese, the scout, moved silently off into the foliage. Two or three minutes passed, and then the movements of the men on the platform suddenly grew more animated. All three of the men above exited their post and came quickly down the slope, directly toward Violet and her team. The operatives remained silent and still as they passed, despite the fact that one of the rebels tripped and nearly stumbled straight into Raines…the three men disappeared down the hill, and Violet made the single gesture to move out. Concerns about noise momentarily forgotten, the operatives rushed up the slope to the platform, vaulting over the rail and drawing up before the ventilation grate. They had no more than a few minutes…a miniature laser cutter flared to life, and the heavy bars began to part with maddening slowness. Violet struggled to control her impatience, which was heightened all the more by her anticipation of what was soon to come; willing herself to remain calm, she managed to hold her silence until the last of the bars was cut.

"Rebels are coming back," Kaplan's voice crackled across the radio, the man in question a faint blue silhouette crouching near the base of a tree…the grating was pried loose with scarcely a sound, and the lead operative slowly began to ease into the pipe.

"Faster, you fools!" Violet spat, now able to see the distant shapes of the approaching Resistance soldiers; though they could not yet see the open mouth of the vent, they would be able to in a few seconds. Unconcerned about noise, Violet all but pushed the second man into the pipe and quickly followed him; emulating their leader's example, the rest of the agents made no effort to avoid banging about as they ducked inside. The last two seized the grate and pulled it up into place behind them, the bars having been cut at an angle that would prevent the grate from falling inward. Two tiny spot welds were made, just enough to stabilize the grating, and then the agents were again silent as footsteps marked the arrival of the rebel soldiers.

"False alarm," one of them said, his radio crackling something in reply, and the operatives relaxed. Now, however, the real work began. Easing her way down to the front of the group, Violet found herself perhaps three feet above the first of several laser tripwires which crossed the inside of the pipe; the same visual frequency that allowed her to see her teammates allowed her to just distinguish the narrow beams which barred her way. There were almost certainly no explosives or other traps in the air vent itself, but the disruption of one of the beams would undoubtedly alert security…something Violet was obviously keen to avoid. Easing a tiny case from a pocket on the leg of her jumpsuit, she carefully attached a tiny double-sided mirror in front of the first laser projector, breaking the circuit without triggering an alert. She repeated the process with the opposite projector, now sending both beams directly back into their source emitters. Sensors still registered a constant laser beam, but the pipe was now clear. She repeated the process at three more sets of projectors, creating a path forward to where additional ventilation conduits split off to either side. At her nod, two men split off to the left, while the other seven followed her to the right, more of them breaking off at set intervals. A bewildering array of ducts and conduits ran in every direction, undoubtedly spanning the entire rebel facility; while the ventilation system was not represented on Mugabe's map, a rough approximation of the operatives' present coordinates gave them some idea of where they were in relation to the rest of the base. Finally, only Violet and Chu remained. They were to separate at the junction just ahead, but Chu hesitated.

"You're certain you don't need backup, My Lady? Flynn and his men can handle the charges, if you wish."

"That's quite all right," Violet replied, "I thank you for your offer, Lieutenant, but I am quite certain I can handle one old man. Besides, this has become a matter of… _honor_. I must do it alone."

Chu nodded and disappeared into the duct.

Violet waited there at the junction after he was gone, fury and anticipation building in her chest until they became unbearable. Again she closed her eyes, ordering her mind into a state of calm. When she was again in mastery of herself, she opened her eyes, concentrating on the row of five tiny circles superimposed at the bottom of her vision by the eyepiece. Each represented an objective marker, and each would illuminate as her teams completed their objectives. She did not know how long she waited...in the field, her patience was almost limitless. But it had not been terribly long before there was a chirp in her earpiece and the first circle changed to green, signaling that, somewhere above, the rebels' main communications system was now scrambled beyond repair. And the best part? They would not even know until it was too late. They had no idea that their perimeter was down…had no inkling that their own radio receivers had just been used to transmit the all-clear to the Army divisions hiding at the lower end of the valley. The next delay was longer, but eventually the third circle changed to green as well, informing her that Chu had completed his task. The emergency charges that the Oompa-Loompa spy had so fortuitously discovered were intended to block the route of any invader, giving the fortress's personnel and the huge civilian complement time to escape…now they would serve the opposite purpose: to keep the rebels _in_. Violet grinned as she imagined the consternation that would result. The final indicator lit up, and it was done. The main Resistance fortress, the golden prize that had eluded Nova Britannia for so long, was now ready to fall. Only one thing remained, one casualty that had to be guaranteed no matter the outcome of the battle. Violet was ready. She had failed once. She would not fail again.

Making her way along the duct that Chu had taken some time before, she quickly turned and followed another branch. She ducked lower as she made her way into a smaller ventilation shaft, now able to check the rooms below through the gratings that she passed. A cruel smile split her features as she found herself directly above the man she wanted…he had no idea what was about to befall him. She had a strong inclination to try to kick out the grate right then and there, spring down into the room, and perform her task with theatrical flair. Only it would not do to be shot on reflex before she could complete her mission; she did not know how well her active camouflage would respond to such rapid movement, and noisily kicking open a ceiling grate would somewhat defeat the purpose of stealth. Even if she killed her enemy, she might still be shot in the back…and death, while temporary, was an experience she did not care to repeat. _Only what if the General moved, left his office while she was trying to find another way around to him?_ She bit her lip as she considered, nearly drawing blood in her indecision…only then the choice was made for her. The door of the office hissed open, General Bucket greeting the newcomer; though Violet could not see who it was, the two men quickly dropped into a conversation that did not seem in danger of ending soon. Under other circumstances, Violet might have stayed to listen, to see what information she could glean. But she did not care. Whatever it was, it no longer mattered. The Resistance would be in tatters by nightfall.

Backtracking to another grate, Violet lowered herself down in a dark storage room. Making her way to the door, she eased it open and slipped out into the corridor, her tread completely silent. She shrank back against the wall several times as enemy soldiers passed her, oblivious to her presence despite the fact that she was no more than six inches from them. Several turns brought her to what was surely the correct corridor, the door she wanted just ahead; two men stood guard outside, and she could just hear the indistinct sound of the General's voice from beyond the door. The two guards remained blissfully unaware as she stepped up beside the first man, so close she could have kissed him…her arm shot out, seizing his head and pulling it forward as a knife shot from her opposite hand, skewering the second man through the throat as he turned to see what was wrong with his companion…she threw herself into the air, using the first man as a pommel horse as she flipped onto his shoulders, wrapped her legs around his neck, and sprang free with a neat horizontal pirouette, twisting his head almost backwards. Landing cleanly, she took a brief moment to straighten her jumpsuit before pressing the button just to one side of the door.


	31. The Blood of Patriots, Part 2

_General Bucket's office, Resistance Base "Homestead"_

Without pretense, the door opened. Carver stopped in mid-sentence and turned, staring. Bucket followed his gaze, to see an outstretched arm lying across the doorway, a rifle just beyond the limp hand. "What the…" Carver started to speak, one hand going instinctively for his sidearm, but it never arrived. There was the cough of a suppressed gunshot, a faint ripple in the air, and a jet of blood exploded from Carver's back. Two more coughs followed in quick succession, sending Carver to the floor in a heap; something struck the wall beside Bucket's desk, and a spray of cement chips struck his face. The General stood, the horrible realization of _what_ was happening all too clear…even though he could not have said _how_ it was happening…his own gun was coming up slowly, far too slowly, every movement feeling as if it took place underwater. But even as his body fought for survival, he already knew…something hit him, the pain in his stomach like a brutal punch to the gut. He fell back into his chair, one hand rising instinctively to his wound; another impact slammed into his right shoulder, and he swore as his hand involuntarily released its hold on his pistol. He still had one weapon left…throwing himself to his feet, he lunged and fell against the alert button on the wall. Nothing happened. He pressed it again, hoping for the wail of sirens: _Even if I die, they can lock down the base, start the evacuation. Whole damned Imperial army won't be far behind._

But there was nothing, other than the faint click of the button as he hammered on it. "It's no good, I'm afraid. We've disabled your entire network." Bucket turned and fell back into his chair, knowing inescapably that it must be the truth if even the panic buttons were useless. He did not feel any surprise as he registered the voice of Violet Beauregarde; in fact, he would have been surprised if it had been anyone else. He looked up, glaring at the place where he had just seen a vague distortion in the air. _Like the damned alien from the Predator movies,_ he thought, _only the invisibility's even better._

"Do me one favor," he hissed, his breath coming with difficulty through the pain. "At least have the decency to look me in the eye when you kill me."

"As you wish." The air in the middle of the office rippled and peeled apart, the Empress's assassin materializing before him with a silenced pistol in her hand.

Even as he slumped in his chair, knowing he was about to die, he did want to know one thing. "How?" The curiosity in his voice was genuine.

Violet shrugged. "I'd be lying if I told you I understood it all…let me just say that your mysterious Oompa-Loompa friends brought some remarkable technology with them, the day they first came into our war." There could be no doubt who she meant. Bucket shivered, growing cold…all of his anger and pain had flowed away, to be replaced only be a keen awareness of how old and tired he was. _Not just light-headed because I'm bleeding to death, but tired. Tired of this war…tired of this whole damn world._

Bucket nodded. "Well, for what it's worth, I hope they get their ship back…somehow. Good bunch of chaps, they are. I assume you're not alone?"

"The entire Third Army is coming up the valley as we speak."

"Hmmm. I don't suppose there's any chance of bargaining for the lives of the civilians."

"What would you bargain _with_ , General?" Violet's cold but genuine curiosity drew a snort from Bucket.

"Well, you've got a point there." He straightened up as much as possible, looking Violet directly in the eye. "Go on then, if you're going to do it."

"Any last words?"

"No. No great speeches for me. Just make it quick."

"I will."

Bucket closed his eyes. _What do you want your last thought to be, eh?_ But he already had it. _My darling wife, and my little Charlie, and my girl that I never even knew_ … _I'm about to see them, all of them_. He smiled. The pistol spat once, and General Bucket knew no more.

Violet Beauregarde could not suppress the savage grin on her features as she stepped forward, rapidly taking scans of the General's retina and thumbprint. She even drew a tiny vial of blood; there was no doubt that she had in fact killed the right man, but there would always be the naysayers who would not believe anything less than genetic evidence. _And now we even have that,_ she thought as she again faded to invisibility and transmitted the brief burst of code that would inform her teammates she had succeeded. The last of the tiny rings at the bottom of her vision lit up…five objectives, all of them now complete. She could taste the victory already, could almost hear the Empress congratulating her team. _All of it for you,_ Violet thought, thinking only of Veruca's face. _Always for you._


	32. The Blood of Patriots, Part 3

_Barracks_

A lone soldier rounded the corner and saluted the Captain. "Truck's here, sir, whenever you and your men are ready."

SC-80 nodded. "Thank you, Bjorn. Tell them we'll be along in just a minute." _It was strange_. After six months here, the four surviving crewmembers of Deepstar Five were at last packing their things, their uniforms neatly pressed, wrapped in plastic, and placed into rucksacks along with several other changes of clothing and the few odds and ends they had acquired during their time in the base. All except for the precious ten-pound note…this was stowed in the breast pocket of RA-48's tunic, awaiting its appointment with destiny. By the end of the week, the four would be back in England, preparing to steal back their ship and set right…everything. Jonesy would undoubtedly be waiting at the trucks to see them off, which SC-80 had no doubt would be the hardest thing of all: saying goodbye to the close friend they had made, who would cease to be as soon as the timeline was corrected. SC-80's momentary doubts of several days ago seemed a lifetime away; he knew what had to be done, and he would not hesitate to do it. But he still could not shake the vague feeling of betrayal that he felt whenever he shook a hand or received a salute… _Soon none of you will even be._ He buried the feeling and finished stowing a final tunic in his pack. "We ready?" He looked around at them…IP-101, ever the clean-cut pilot; the elderly and distinguished RP-18; the young but brave RA-48. They were all feeling the same things that he was, but they all nodded. The Captain smiled, a tad grimly. "Waiting won't make it any easier, gents. Let's do it."

It was as if someone heard him, only misinterpreted what he meant. The instant he finished speaking, the room went black, the lights shutting off instantaneously. "What the hell?" came IP-101's voice. "Jonesy, is that you playing around?!" The bunkroom door was open, but no light came in from outside.

"Corridor lights are out, too," the Captain noted, still far from concerned. The base's power grid _did_ throw the occasional temper tantrum, and it would not be the first time they had been stuck in the dark for a few minutes. Only then the room shook. It was nothing prolonged, just a single brief shiver and a distant rumble. But it was quickly followed by another, and then another. And the terrifying, inescapable truth fell hard and fast: _We're under attack. There's no other explanation_.

"What's going on up there?!" RA-48 blurted, unable to hide the fear in his voice. "They can't have found us!"

 _Only they could_ …the Captain instantly thought of Mugabe, and IP-101's story of finding him skulking around up near the air vents. SC-80 started to speak, only the emergency lights started up just then, flooding the room with dim yellow illumination. The Captain was looking right into one of the lamps and was momentarily blinded; when his vision cleared, all three of his compatriots were staring past him with expressions of alarm. He turned, and found himself looking into the barrel of a gun, which was presently pointed straight at his forehead. The wielder was none other than the very man in question: Awolowa Mugabe. The drug dealer grinned. "Does dis scene heah seem familiah, mon, or is it just me?" He laughed.

"You…what is this, petty revenge?"

The room shook again, harder this time. "Dis ain' no revenge, mon. If I'da wanted dot, I would'a shot you in de head already. Dis is about my new employahs."

"You led the enemy here." It was not a question. The Doctor started to say something, which was interrupted when 101 called Mugabe a name the Captain would not have guessed the pilot knew. The drug dealer ignored them both.

"Simple 'rithmetic. De price was right. But deah's a bonus in it for me if I be bringin' de lot o' you in wit me. You gonna teach dem how to fly dot fancy plane o' yours…dey don't tell me nothin' 'bout it, but I done heard tings heah and deah. Now I know you don' have any weapons, so let's make dis as easy as possible, eh? You gonna follow me, you gonna do what I tell you. Any questions?"

The Captain bit back any one of several smart replies, but they were nothing more than immature rhetoric. The fact was that he _didn't_ know what to do. Mugabe was right; they were in the bunkroom, unarmed. If one of them could get within arm's reach of Mugabe, it would be over in an instant. But the drug dealer knew he was dealing with trained military men, meaning that he was smart enough not to let that happen. There was another impact, this one much harsher…likely a deep-penetration warhead of some kind. An alarm screamed in the distance and, for just an instant, the lights flickered out. But that was all it took. There was a scream of fury, and Research Assistant 48 charged past the Captain, his head down like a bull charging. "Wait!" the Captain heard his own voice say, but it was too late. Mugabe's gun swung toward 48 an instant too late, and the civilian plowed into the drug dealer's midriff. Using his amateur fighting skills to their finest extent, 48 had seized Mugabe and was kicking and punching him in every weak point he could find…the lights failed again just as the drug dealer fell backward onto the floor, pulling 48 with him. There were a few seconds of complete darkness, the Captain blundering forward toward the sounds of combat…then there was a bright flash, a deafening report, and a cry of pain. The sounds of fighting stopped, there was a metallic _clink_ from the right, and then the lights suddenly came back. The Captain found himself standing just to the left of Mugabe, who was standing with pistol in hand, turning in alarm toward something on the other side of him…101 had taken a crescent wrench from the tool bag hanging from the end of Jonesy's bunk, and the improvised weapon now came down hard on Mugabe's outstretched right arm. There was a sickening crack, a scream, and the drug dealer's gun fell to the floor…101 drew back and swung the wrench with a backhanded motion, striking the reeling drug dealer across the face. Mugabe fell and 101 followed, leaping onto his victim with a truly terrifying savagery. The wrench rose and fell in long sweeps, coming first from one side and then the other…and Mugabe's cries of pain quickly stopped. Blood spattered with every hit, but 101 kept going.

In disconnected fashion, the Captain looked down to see the Doctor kneeling beside 48, blood spreading across the front of the Research Assistant's tunic; instinctively, the Captain turned and began searching for a first aid kit. Finding it, he walked back and silently began to dress the wound, feeling numb. The bullet was still inside and there was no way of extracting it…especially seeing as they were now in the middle of an attack and had no possibility of getting 48 to surgery. As the Captain could not help but admit to himself, the civilian's chances of survival were almost nil. _He'll bleed to death before we can get him any help,_ SC-80 thought, wondering at the callous idea which now played at the edge of his mind. _He'll never survive, and it would be easier on him to be left here in the bunkroom than to be dragged through the base during a battle._ Furious at himself, he squashed the idea. _It doesn't matter whether he makes it or not…we have to try, no matter how stupid or fruitless it ultimately is_. 48 did not ask whether he would be all right; between the feeling in his own body and the grim look on the Captain's face, he already knew the answer.

"We have to go," IP-101 said, standing over the scene like the figure of Death, covered from head to foot in the drug dealer's blood.

"I know," the Captain growled, applying a final bandage and helping the Doctor lift 48 to his feet. Machinegun fire was now reverberating through the corridors, drawing closer. Wordlessly, 101 stepped forward and relieved the Doctor, taking his place under RA-48's opposite arm. Holding him between them, an arm draped over each of their shoulders, 101 and the Captain maneuvered 48 out of the bunkroom and into the corridor. The Doctor gathered up the rucksacks and followed, his face showing the same stoic resignation as 48.

It was like a nightmare…dim and intermittent lighting made everything vague and indistinct, the sounds of fighting reduced to an indistinct roar as they echoed through the passages. Hazy figures darted past on all sides, but none of them stopped to lend assistance; there were no faces in the semi-darkness, just silhouettes. The Captain was leading, 101 simply staying beside him and keeping 48 on his feet, the Doctor trailing behind. SC-80's objective was the nearest emergency elevator, which would take them down to the lower cavern and the evacuation tunnel. _Granted, it's anyone's guess as to whether we'll actually get there._ Their progress was painfully slow, and the sounds of gunfire were drawing ever nearer. Suddenly, a group of figures rounded the corner just ahead, one extremely short one pausing and looking in the direction of the Deepstar crew. "OY, IS THAT YOU LOT?!"

"Yeah, Jonesy, it's us!" 101 answered. "What the hell's going on?"

"We've gotta get our asses out o' here, mate! That's what's going on! They're spreading out through the base, killing everyone. Bucket's dead, Carver's dead…Hamilton was in charge, but I think he's dead too!" He realized now that both 48 was wounded, and stepped forward. "Here, give me a shoulder."

"I'm all right," the Captain grunted. "Take over from 101."

"What happened?" Jonesy asked as he took 101's place under 48's right arm.

"It was a damned spy. Same man who led them here. Had a gun on us…apparently there's a reward for our capture." 101 growled the words as they moved. "48 rushed him."

"Damned brave of you, bully boy," Jonesy said quietly, talking in an undertone to 48 as they walked. "Took a lot of nerve, that did…you just hang in there, eh? We'll get you all fixed up. Don't want you looking like this when I go to collect that reward money, now do I?" And though it wasn't much of a joke, it still drew a weak rasp of laughter from 48. The elevator was drawing closer, though the small procession was now beginning to pass the bodies of fallen Resistance members. The enemy was near…there could be no doubt. And 48's condition was still deteriorating. As 101 moved to relieve the Captain, 48's weight shifted slightly, and the unfortunate Loompa let out a roar of pain.

"Please, no more! No more…just put me down."

"Don't give up now…" the Doctor started to say, but 48 cut him off.

"Listen to me, damn it! I'm done…we all know it. _I_ know it. Just no more pain… _please_. Just set me down against the wall there."

Jonesy hesitated. "You heard the man," SC-80 said quietly, and Jonesy helped ease 48 into a sitting position. RA-48 was in bad shape; he was shaking severely, his skin clammy.

"Thanks for trying, but we all know…I'm staying here. I can't slow you down any more, and it wouldn't do me any good if I did. I'm finished." He wiped a shaking hand on the sleeve of his tunic, getting away the blood before he reached into his breast pocket and drew out the crumpled but serviceable bank note. He extended a hand to the Captain. "Finish it, sir. Set it right."

"We will," the Doctor said gently, kneeling beside his junior associate. He took the bill and passed it to the Captain. A grandfatherly hand rose to 48's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, my boy. It's my fault, all of it."

"No." 48 shook his head. "We couldn't have known…" His words ended in a hiss of pain, and he gestured vaguely to the body of a Resistance soldier lying nearby. 101 understood, removing the man's equipment belt and dragging it over to where 48 rested against the wall. He started to draw the soldier's pistol, but 48 stopped him. "No…just a grenade. You know I can't hit anything with the other." He looked around at his little circle of friends, the faces he knew so well, and smiled weakly. "I'd like to get just one." 101 handed over the grenade, clasped the other's hands in understanding for a brief moment, and then rose.

The Captain nodded. "Farewell, son." He turned, 101 following.

The Doctor hesitated, and 48 looked straight into his eyes. "Go on, sir." The Doctor slowly nodded and followed the other two, but not without a look back.

The last to go was Jonesy, who indicated the grenade with a tilt of his head. "Make it count, mate." And then RA-48 was alone in the corridor.


	33. The Blood of Patriots, Part 4

_Front Gate_

Violet Beauregarde strolled out calmly between the gates of the rebel fortress, unable to resist the opportunity for a bit of theater. She had originally been intending to exit through the air vents with the rest of her team, but it had been prudent to alter her route in order to reach the man that she now approached. Casually walking between the soldiers rushing past her into the fortress, she drew up in front of the division commander. He towered over her, a steel giant in a Goliath exosuit; even without the armor, however, he was a massive specimen of a man, his height and musculature artificially augmented during his growth. His jaw was heavy, his skin fair…with blonde hair and blue eyes, he was the very embodiment of the Aryan ideal. This man, this Germanic titan, was General Augustus Gloop. Even Violet paused for a moment as she stared up at the face behind the exosuit's visor; having heard of Gloop's erstwhile replacement, she had known he would look different. But the change was still…shocking. "My Lady," Gloop acknowledged, bowing as best his armor would allow.

"Status, General?"

"Ve have control of ze upper caverns, and ze surviving rebels are in full retreat. Undoubtedly, zey are moving to evacuate as ve speak."

"Don't worry about that. They won't make it far. General, I want to initiate Omega Protocol immediately."

Gloop's face froze for a brief instant. "Ze Empress does not intend to take prisoners?"

Violet smiled coldly. "Do you have a problem with your orders, General?"

Gloop shook his head. "No, My Lady." He switched to his suit radio. "All units, zis is General Gloop. Vithdraw to ze upper caverns and don respirators. Ve are initiating Strike Protocol Omega." Violet walked away, clearly satisfied, and Gloop could only watch as the helicopters approached, lethal tanks of chemicals held in position beneath their bellies. Soon, those chemicals would be pouring through the rebels' ventilation system…and none of them would survive. Gloop might have felt a brief instant of horror at what he was about to do, but he never acknowledged it. He had sold his soul a long time ago.

 _Military Sector, Corridor D12_

The other four Loompas had not gone terribly far before there was an explosion behind them; no one said anything, but a significant glance passed through the group. They reached the elevator to find it functional and deserted, and the lift quickly whisked them down to the lower cavern. The evacuation was just now getting fully underway, hundreds of civilians funneling into the passage from the upper levels. A few Resistance troops were out in front, leading the way toward the tunnel…only they were still too far away to see what was already becoming horribly clear to the Deepstar crew. "It can't be…" RP-18 said quietly, but it was. The evacuation tunnel had been collapsed by a massive explosion, leaving only a tiny gap where a piece of steel rebar held back the rocks. And the worst was still to come. As Jonesy and the three survivors of Deepstar watched helplessly, a series of rapid explosions crackled along the walls and ceiling of the passage to the upper caves…and the true horror of what was about to happen became clear. There was no time to speak, no time to act; as if in slow motion, the passage folded in on itself, untold thousands of tons of material thundering down onto the fleeing multitudes. The charges had been intended to completely seal the passage, and they performed their job admirably. A cloud of dust filled the cave, blinding and choking the four Oompa-Loompas.

"What do we do?" Jonesy finally coughed, his voice scarcely above a whisper…they were the only four left alive in the lower cavern, trapped between two cave-ins, but there were at least two thousand people above them, now trapped at the mercy of the enemy.

The horrible truth was clear. "There's nothing we can do." And though SC-80 hated himself as he said it, the fact was simple: _The Resistance has lost. But we still have a mission to carry out._ "This way!" he said sharply, turning away from the terrible sight of the collapsed cavern to the lower tunnel. "I think we can squeeze through that gap up there."

"Are you mad?" RP-18 asked mildly, the Doctor's composure never broken regardless of what he might have been feeling. "Even if _we_ could get through, there's no way that our equipment…"

"IT'S THE ONLY WAY OUT, DAMMIT!" The Captain turned, roaring the words with absolute fury. "UNLESS YOU WANT TO TRY TO GET OUT THROUGH THE AIR VENTS AND GET _SHOT TO DEATH_!" Instantly, his tone softened. "I'm sorry, Doctor…"

"No," RP-18 replied, "You're quite right. Lead on, Captain."

101 had already reached the top of the debris pile and was hard at work trying to widen the miniscule opening…but then he stopped cold. A distant alarm screeched, barely audible from their present location. 101 looked at the Captain. "That's the contamination alarm. _Shit!"_

It took a split-second, but then the Captain realized the full ramifications of that statement. "MOVE, NOW! THEY'RE GASSING THE PLACE!" Again, he felt a horrible pang of guilt and regret as he looked back at the collapsed passage from the upper caves…whatever was flooding down might be mere tear gas, or it might be the agent of a full-scale extermination. _But there was no way to stop it, no way to help those people. The only thing that mattered now was to survive._ He could not have said afterwards how they made it through the blocked lower tunnel; the tiny opening that remained did not seem sufficient for even an Oompa-Loompa. But through sheer desperation they clawed and squeezed their way through, abandoning their rucksacks and everything but the clothes on their backs. That…and the all-important ten-pound note. They were blind in the darkness, working purely by feel; they might have been in the passage for five minutes or an hour, but at last light broke above their heads. Filthy, torn, and bloody, they emerged into a burning vision of hell. Much of the forest around the exit tunnel was on fire, swarms of helicopters alternately putting out some blazes with water while starting others with their munitions. In the sheer chaos, they slipped away easily. SC-80 found himself wondering at the sense of detachment he felt…once he had made the decision to go through with the mission, to reset the past and escape this place, it no longer felt real. _The mission is all we have left. We_ will _succeed, and then none of this will ever have happened._ But then he looked at Jonesy's face, the horror in the other Loompa's expression evident even as they ran for their lives. _To him, though, this is all real. It's the end of the world._ SC-80 swore quietly and mashed the entire issue back into the furthest corner of his mind. _To hell with the philosophy of time travel…let's just get home._


	34. The Blood of Patriots, Part 5

_Balkan Mountains, exact location unknown_

They reached the village the next morning, and the Captain was honestly surprised to find the inn still standing. After what had happened at the base, a part of him expected to find the building in ruins…another part of him had expected to find the entire village likewise destroyed. The Captain pounded on the door until it was opened by the innkeeper, an enormous bear of a man named Grigori; after the necessary exchange of code words, the gigantic man moved aside and allowed his four tiny guests in. Hot food and fresh water were immediately brought, but the Captain's first concern was not for his stomach. "Anyone else?"

Grigori shook his head slowly, his face showing roughly the same emotion as a statue. "Only one, dead now," he said in broken, heavily accented English. "Told me what happened. Nerve gas killed everyone else…all the civilians, too."

"Who was it?" SC-80 felt sick, but he suppressed the feeling.

"Name of Bradley. Looks like you're in charge…only officer left."

"My companions and I have to get to England," the Captain said. "We were supposed to have gone yesterday, just before the attack. There was a truck sent for us…"

"Truck from Varna…yeah. They came through here."

"I need them to send another."

"What for?" Grigori could not suppress a derisive snort. "We're done anyway."

"No, we're not." The Captain's tone was icy. "My mission is of the utmost importance if we want to _save_ what's left of the Resistance." The lie rolled easily off his tongue… _but was it really a lie? We will be saving the Resistance, after a fashion…it will never exist in the first place._ "Now I am giving you an order. Call Varna and get me another truck."

Grigori gave the Captain a suspicious glance, but lumbered off upstairs to use his transmitter. And, true to form, a truck did indeed arrive at the inn the following morning. Its three crew, who had obviously driven all night from the coast, were swapped out for several fresh locals, and the Oompa-Loompas were quickly on their way. Though infiltrating passenger airlines was all but impossible, the Resistance had a number of contacts in various freight airways; Jonesy and three remaining crew of Deepstar quickly found themselves aboard a plane for France, and within twenty-four hours they were on British soil once again.


	35. Final Flight, Part 1

_London, England_

"Coming up to the gate now. Sixty seconds," a voice crackled in the back of the enclosed truck, and SC-80 turned to Jonesy. Though he would not be entering Chadworth Industries, certainly, he had insisted on accompanying the Deepstar crew this far to see them off. _There had been something strange in his manner the last few days,_ the Captain thought, _something more than just the loss of the base. But it hardly matters now._ "Thirty seconds."

The Captain nodded and extended a hand. "Well, it looks like this is it…at least for a while. It may be a couple of months before we can get New Atlantis into the fight."

Jonesy completed the handshake. "It's been my pleasure, sirs."

"Likewise," the Doctor said, the next man for a handshake. "Take care of yourself, good fellow."

"Will do."

IP-101 clapped Jonesy on the shoulder. "See you, buddy."

"Right, mate. See you soon." Had it not been so dark in the rear of the truck, someone might have caught the look on Jonesy's face. But no one did.

"Ten seconds," the driver said. "Five seconds…now." The truck's engine shuddered and died, and the ignition began to crank as the driver struggled to restart it. This was the cue. IP-101 pulled open the rear door of the truck, which had conveniently stalled beside the same row of crates that held their transportation…SC-80 helped the Doctor out, and then leapt down himself. The Captain swung the rear door shut but did not lock it; even if he had failed to secure it completely, Jonesy would undoubtedly take care of it. The three Oompa-Loompas dodged back into the stacks of containers, 101 reading the numbers as they passed.

"Two-one-six," he said, pointing. "That's it." Their conveyance was a large metal crate, a cube of about six feet per side, plated and reinforced to carry any manner of valuable equipment to and from the Chadworth Industries' labs. Ducking into the narrow space between the box and its neighbor, IP-101 drew a small knife and began to work it under the edges of a particular panel near the bottom. Voices sounded dangerously close, footsteps approaching from around the next row of crates.

"Make it quick, pilot," the Captain said, the warning in his tone evident.

"Trying, sir…" 101 growled; he wrenched hard on the knife, using it as an improvised crowbar, and the panel popped free.

"Move!" the Captain said urgently, and 101 dropped to all fours and crawled quickly into the crate. The Doctor followed, having a bit of trouble with movement on all fours; the Captain was close behind, pulling the panel back into place. The voices, now muffled, paused just outside the crate, and something brushed against the outside…though it was doubtful they could be heard within the thick insulation of the outer shell, none of the Deepstar crew moved. Indeed, SC-80 found himself holding his breath and blew it out in a rush… _If we can't even_ breathe _without being heard, I think we're screwed anyway._ At last, the voices moved off, and the Captain spoke. "Let's get some light in here." He drew out a chemical light and cracked it, filling the inside of the container with a greenish hue. Some considerations had been made for the trio's comfort; the inside of the container was lined with carpeting. There was nothing else of note…but, fortunately, it was not as if they would be spending more than a couple of hours in here. The Captain turned to their exit hatch and secured the latches, which would take the place of the adhesive seal had previously held the panel in place. Now there was nothing to do but wait. The Doctor leaning against one wall, while 101 stretched out on his back on the floor.

"Someone wake me up when we get there."

"Will do," the Doctor answered with a chuckle though, as the Captain watched, 18 began to nod off almost immediately afterward. The three had not had much sleep in the past few days, and it was catching up with them. _Catching up?_ The Captain thought with a smile. _It_ has _caught up._ Though the crate was hardly a luxury suite, it was nicer than many of the places they had been compelled to sleep recently; feeling drowsy himself, the Captain made himself as comfortable as possible against the wall and almost immediately lapsed into unconsciousness. The nap, however, did not last long. The Captain sat up sharply as the crate suddenly jolted upward and then began to rise at a slow, continuous rate. In his alarm, a small metallic disk flew from one of the pockets of the Captain's tactical vest, which he now seized and shoved back into place; the disk was a small shaped charge powerful enough to blast through any locking mechanism, an emergency measure just in case they reached a door that even Sakagawa's electronic genius could not open. Each member of the team carried one, though hopefully they would not be necessary.

Though the crate must have been secure on a crane or forklift of some kind, there was an alarming amount of wobble in the vertical movement; SC-80 could not shake the horrible feeling that they were going to tip off the forklift (if that was indeed what it was) and be smashed brutally against the side of their carpeted prison. From the expressions on the faces of 101 and the Doctor, they had similar fears. Fortunately, however, the disaster never came…there was a faint shift that suggested horizontal movement, and then the crate descended a short distance to settle on what must have been the back of a truck. There was a faint metallic _clunk_ , a whisper of straps over the container's sides, and then a series of gentle vibrations as other containers must have been loaded. At last the truck ground to life, and for the next half an hour the gentle but unmistakable jostle of the roadway came up through the bed of the vehicle, along with frequent sideways shifts as the truck made its corners. Finally, the movement slowed, and the three members of Deepstar involuntarily tightened as they realized they must be approaching the security checkpoint.


	36. Final Flight, Part 2

The Captain willed himself to remain calm… _Giving myself a heart attack won't help matters. It's not as if we can fool the security scanner by being quiet, and there's no escape if they pick us up._ He closed his eyes, concentrating on something…anything…there was no sense of when or if they passed through security, not even so much as a bump to indicate the transition to the inside of a warehouse. But within the space of five minutes, the crate was being raised, shifted, and then lowered back to solid earth. There was a bump as it came to rest on something, most likely concrete, and then another tremor as another box was placed atop it. A horrible thought suddenly struck the Captain: everything about the box had theoretically been coded in its delivery instructions, including whether it was to be placed at the end of a row or in the middle. _But suppose there's a mistake? Suppose they put another crate up against the side of us so that I can't get the hatch open, and…_ He shook his head furiously. The importance of the mission was overwhelming him, the sense of what they were about to do pressing down like a great weight on his shoulders. If they failed, they lost everything…they had lost their home in this version of reality, and they had only one chance to regain the one they had lost before. But he could not let the stress get to him. _Fear is the mind killer. You think about making a mistake, you make one for sure._ He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. After ten or fifteen minutes, all sound ceased from outside, and SC-80 turned to the others. "Ready?" There were two nods, and the Captain slowly eased himself over to the hatch.

When he opened the panel, the immediate surroundings looked much like those they had just left…only this freight yard was indoors, a warehouse of some kind, and the crate's nearest neighbor was somewhat further away, allowing plenty of room to exit. The same materials that made the crate impossible to scan also made it impossible to transmit through…the Captain quickly ducked outside and placed a tiny pocket transmitter underneath the edge of the crate, snaking a wire back inside to his own radio. Pulling the hatch gently back into place and hoping that no one noticed the thin, almost invisible wire, he keyed his radio. "Captain Sakagawa, we are in position. Do you confirm?"

The voice that came back from the other end was at once pleased and nervous. "Affirmative. GPS confirms that you are inside the testing facility's perimeter. Are you and your men ready to move?"

The Captain looked around at his two companions; 101 gave a sharp nod and drew a silenced pistol from its shoulder holster as if in emphasis, while the Doctor simply gave a helpless nod. _He looked like a grandfather being dragged along by two young and energetic grandchildren,_ SC-80 thought with amusement, but the thought was not unkind. While tactical operations may not have been the Doctor's specialty, RP-18 was certainly not one to quit. "We're ready, sir."

"Copy that. My connection to the facility's network is good…I should have full control over all internal systems. Door locks, cameras, everything. I am going to initiate a fire alert…that should be sufficient to prompt an evacuation, but without drawing anything more unwelcome than the local fire brigade. You will still need to hurry, however; I cannot say exactly how long it will take the enemy to discover and terminate my connection once I begin manipulating their systems. I programmed the intrusion software myself; I can guarantee you ten minutes, but nothing beyond that. You will also need to wait for several minutes for the area to clear before you move, cutting your time even further. When I tell you to move, you will need to follow my instructions quickly and exactly. Now your ship _is_ on the ground level, so at least we won't have to navigate any stairs or elevators. As soon as I press the button, however, the clock starts…and we only have one chance at this. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. Do it."

"Initiating now. Wait to move until you receive my all-clear." After perhaps five seconds, an alarm began to wail in the distance…first one, then several. The Captain removed the hatch and dragged it out of the way, the Doctor and 101 moving up close behind him in preparation for leaving their temporary shelter. The seconds passed with agonizing slowness, SC-80's ear attuned for the crackle of the radio. When it came, he almost jumped. "Go now. Turn left and make your way to the end of the container stack, then turn right and head to the door at the north end of the room. Stay low. There are two guards still in position against the west wall." SC-80 drew his gun and led the way, his two companions close behind. They did in fact have to detour to avoid the guards, who suddenly shifted position and began heading toward them…while Sakagawa relayed instructions quickly and efficiently, the operation was still terrifying. The Oompa-Loompas could not see the men that Sakagawa steered them to avoid, could not see what was beyond the next door until they were already through. But with the clock ticking, there was no time to stop or even to slow. _It was like piloting a ship,_ the Captain thought, _with only flight controls but no windows or instruments. Someone else is seeing_ for _you, and you just have to hope he's right._ But Sakagawa was. With absolute precision, he maneuvered the Oompa-Loompas through a labyrinth of rooms and corridors, keeping them well away from anyone and everyone on their route. SC-80 could tell from the expression on the Doctor's face that he would have given anything to stop in even one of these chambers for just a few minutes; the Chadworth aeronautics facility was impressive even by the Fuhrer's standards, and there was no telling what manner of technological wonders they might have in development. _All stolen from the original Fuhrer's technology, of course,_ SC-80 reminded himself with a growl. And with that thought, Chadworth's magnificent halls of glass touch-screens and stainless steel equipment became a gross mockery of the Fuhrer's work. SC-80 relished the sudden burst of hatred that filled his mind: _Soon this would all be set right, and the Chadworths would go back to their rightful places in whatever afterlife they happened to warrant._


	37. Final Flight, Part 3

They exited a final group of test chambers and came face-to-face with the enormous double door behind which…the vast portal hissed open, and there she was. SC-80 felt an unexpected flood of emotion: he was again looking at his ship. _His ship_. And now that she was the agent of their salvation, he could not imagine how he ever thought her ugly. In person, the mishmash of original and replacement components was even more blatant and jarring, but it hardly mattered. At that moment, Deepstar Five looked like the most beautiful ship in the universe. Presumably there was little security risk _inside_ a fortified laboratory…even the vessel's ramp was already down, as if waiting to welcome her returning crewmembers home. The Captain stopped and drew in a deep breath, feeling at least part of the terrible weight lift from his shoulders. _We've made it this far._ His radio crackled. "Best get moving, Captain. I won't be able to maintain control of internal security much longer. When you see Mr. Wonka, tell him what is happening out here in the world. We need you, all of you."

"We will," SC-80 replied. _In fact, we_ would _be telling Mr. Wonka about what happened here_. The Captain tried hard not to think about the look on the Fuhrer's face, the idea almost making him laugh. _He'll probably have us committed._ He turned to 101. "Get on board and start her up, pilot."

"Yes, sir. I…" 101 stopped as he glanced back at the Captain, his voice trailing off, and SC-80 heard the unmistakable metallic _click_ of a pistol behind his back. Feeling an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, he turned…to find Jonesy, gun raised but not quite pointed at any one member of the Deepstar crew.

"Jonesy?" the Doctor's voice was as even as ever but clearly baffled, the expression on his face suggesting that he doubted his own senses.

"What the hell are you doing here?" The Captain's voice was not friendly when it came. Several possibilities flashed through his mind…none of them good.

"I followed you," Jonesy said quietly, the expression on his face an intense but unreadable mix of emotions. "Sneakin' in wasn't so hard after all, as I found out. You wouldn't have needed that big clunky box…doin' it my way."

"Put the gun down, Jonesy," 101 said, returning his own weapon to its holster as both he and the Doctor stepped forward to stand beside the Captain. "Let's just talk now…not get excited or anything. What are you doing?"

"I can't let you do it," Jonesy said, his face anguished. He jerked his gun roughly in the direction of the ship. His voice was gentle but desperate. "I heard you talking, mate…the other day. Wouldn't be the first time, either. I don't know what to think…maybe all of you are crazy, maybe I am…maybe you're aliens, or maybe you really are from some other…" He did not finish the sentence. "But I pegged it, right from the moment I saw you chaps. I said to myself, 'There's somethin' strange about them, Jonesy'…and I was right. I've seen you walkin' around looking at regular, everyday things like you'd never seen them in your life before. So I had to know. I snuck into the base's infirmary, took a look at your medical records. You could tell all the stories you liked about plastic surgery, but I didn' believe a word of it…not really, not deep down. So I stuck my big snooper where it didn' belong, like usual, and I found for once I was right. You're clones, or _something_ , and don't try to deny it!" His voice took on a sudden vehemence, and he shifted the gun wildly from one member of the Deepstar crew to the next. "And then you go talking about resetting the whole space-time continuum or whatever it is, makin' me and everyone else disappear so you can go back to someone you call 'the _Fuhrer!_ ' I hate to break it to you, chaps, but Fuhrer is hardly a term of endearment…not here, anyway…only man who ever wore the title was an evil bastard who liked to gas women and kids. So I don't presume to understand who or how or what the hell you _are_ , but I'm not going to stand by and watch my world somehow get undone at the seams so that you can go back to whatever sodding dimension you're from!"

"Jonesy," 101 said gently, "you don't understand. It's not like that…"

"YOU'RE BLOODY WELL RIGHT I DON'T UNDERSTAND!" Jonesy roared, taking a step back from the Deepstar crew. "NOW I DON'T WANT ANY MORE LIES! TELL ME: _WHERE DID YOU COME FROM AND WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!_ "

"I think we'd all like to know the answer to that," a voice said mildly, and Jonesy instantly whirled, waving the gun in the direction of the unseen speaker. There was a movement…a flash, a ripple, a reflection from something that was at once there but _not_ there…a glint of light cut the air, and Jonesy's throat magically split open of its own accord, blood pouring down over his chest. Jonesy's hand shot to his neck; he turned back toward the Deepstar crew and made an odd, high-pitched gurgle before collapsing, his face still arranged in a look of frank surprise. The air rippled, bent, and finally peeled back to reveal the forms of two men. Their faces were distinctive, known instantly from memory, as familiar to the Oompa-Loompas as the face of George Washington is to an American schoolchild. These were Vincent and Charles Chadworth, Vincent still wiping the blood from a long, curved knife while Charles held a pistol loosely by his side. The distortion in the air spread from the two brothers like a wave, additional forms materializing behind them one after another, spread in a semicircle around the nearer side of the hangar…soldiers, at least twenty of them, all identical in the gray uniforms and white body armor of Chadworth Industries Security Division. 101's gun snapped out of its holster; the soldiers might well have shot him then and there, had not Charles' free hand shot into the air and signaled them to hold their fire.


	38. Final Flight, Part 4

"I'm sorry about your friend," CL Chadworth said, the tone of sympathy in his voice seemingly genuine as he looked down at the small body in front of his brother's feet. "But I could not have him threatening such an important investment: you. We understand a great deal about your spacecraft, but it would be so much easier to operate if we had input directly from the experts…from the horse's mouth, to use a phrase. That's why I arranged to meet you here."

SC-80 snorted at the dark irony in the man's words. _I can't believe we walked blindly into this, but then again we didn't expect the bastards to have our cloaking technology_. "I applaud you, Mr. Chadworth. But, if I may ask, how did you know?"

Charles smiled. "I have my contacts in the government…they told me what the Empress was planning in Bulgaria, and so I used one of my contacts to pass along an updated objective to the spy Mugabe. He thought the government would award him an extra bonus for bringing you out of the fortress alive; in fact, it was my company that offered the reward. I knew you were there, after your rescue from London six months ago, and I was honestly afraid we had lost you in the gas attack." He shook his head. "Typical of our new government…always shooting itself in the foot in its haste to make an example of some poor sod. Anyway, the soldiers found the body of the spy…clearly killed by something _other_ than gas…and I dare say I allowed myself some hope that we might yet meet. And then today, when a fire alert just conveniently happened to go off in the same facility where we were holding your ship, well…it had to be you, either coming to claim her or else destroy her to keep her out of our hands. And so here we are."

"Now what?"

"Now I propose a deal," Chadworth said calmly. "You help me, I help you, and we all come out very wealthy. There are the usual incentives for you: money, power, women of your own species…but that's just the beginning. The fact is that trying to control your people is more trouble than it's worth; join us, and we might be able to make some progress in improving your status. I can't promise anything, of course, but I am not boasting when I say I have the government's ear. You help me, I help you…as I said."

SC-80 could no longer suppress a mocking laugh. _Even if I believed you, I'd rather burn in hell_. His grip tightened on his pistol. "And if we refuse?"

CL Chadworth sighed deeply and glanced at his brother. "Vincent?"

It was difficult to tell precisely what happened until it was over. Faster than anyone could react, Vincent Chadworth had lunged forward and snatched up the Doctor in a single fluid movement, the long blade pressing against RP-18's throat. Stepping back to where he had been standing a moment before, confident that his opponents would not fire for fear of hitting their comrade, Vincent smiled as he answered with complete calm: "We need this man to unlock the ship, the one the spy told us was the scientist. As for you two, well, you're expendable. So I'll make this easy. Put down your guns…or die." Vincent was bent almost double, his arm wrapped around the Doctor's neck; the sight of a grown man putting an Oompa-Loompa in a headlock might have been comical, had it not been for the blade that threatened to draw itself across 18's throat.

Charles' gun was now pointed at the Captain's head. "A decision, sir, if you please." SC-80's mind was racing…he was keenly aware of 101 beside him, pistol drawn, ready to go down shooting… _There were too many soldiers, far too many, but fortunately not all of them could fire thanks to the way the Chadworth brothers had positioned themselves…If we could just get a split-second diversion…_ and then the Captain got exactly what he wanted. The Doctor looked straight into the Captain's eyes…and winked. RP-18's hand reached up to the front of Vincent Chadworth's tactical vest and, when it came away, it left behind behind something circular with a pattern of red lights…

The charge exploded. Intended to blast through reinforced door locks, it penetrated Kevlar and flesh easily, doing the damage of a point-blank shotgun blast. Vincent Chadworth had realized that something was amiss, reflexively beginning to straighten up just as the device fired. All SC-80 had wanted was a split-second…and he had it. Charles was turning involuntarily toward his brother, obviously confused; the soldiers hesitated, not knowing whether their leader had been injured or had just stood up from decapitating the prisoner. RP-18 burst free of his captor's arms, aged knees and stubborn joints working flawlessly as he charged toward the ship with a thoroughly unnecessary "RUN!" Vincent Chadworth, however, had one last bit of life left, and the Doctor remained unaware of the knife hurtling end-over-end through the air behind him until it embedded itself between his shoulder blades, nearly impaling him with the force of its master's final throw. As he sprinted for the ship, firing backward at the hated face of CL Chadworth, the Captain saw RP-18 fall in his peripheral vision. The shock of the Doctor's death was overwhelmed, however, by a single instant of pure horror: _The Doctor had the note. We're done for._ But then the Captain remembered, even as his hand reflexively shot to the pocket of his vest: _I have it. I took it from him, after 48 handed it to him._ And so the Captain kept moving…the mission was all that mattered now, and it was still a go.


	39. Final Flight, Part 5

SC-80 had just reached the base of the ramp when something hit him hard in his right side, just above the hip. He stumbled and fell, still shooting wildly. _I've been shot_. But though he knew it must be the case, there was no sense of it…no pain, no weakness. Still numbed by adrenaline, he felt as though his body belonged to someone else as he hurled himself to the top of the ramp and slammed his hand down on the CLOSE button, IP-101 already ahead of him and just now reaching the cockpit. As the ramp hissed shut, the pain came suddenly and all at once, and the Captain fell against the wall as he pressed a hand to his side. The bullet had punched through the side of his tactical vest; the gear had slowed the shell down enough to prevent an instant death, but he was still badly wounded and bleeding profusely. He started to lurch his way over to the first aid locker, only to realize that it was no longer there; unable to do anything else, he tore off a section of his tunic and stuffed it into the wound, tightening his vest to keep it in place. The deck shifted violently under his feet, throwing him against the wall as Deepstar wobbled unsteadily into the air; gritting his teeth and inhaling sharply, the Captain willed himself not to pass out as he struggled up the ladder and found himself on what had previously been his bridge. There were only three seats now, all of them sized for an ordinary person…two in front for the pilot's station, and one against the side wall at the monitoring station for the warp drive. He staggered forward to the copilot's position and threw himself into it, strapping himself in. IP-101 glanced over, and immediately swore. "Captain, you're…"

"I'm fine," SC-80 said, grimacing. "Get us out of here."

"Aye, sir." Bullets pinged off the hull as 101 punched in the override code for the hangar doors. The keypad the pilot was using had not existed in the ship's original plans, and 80 just now realized what a schizophrenic mess his bridge truly was in the aftermath of the Chadworth repairs. _I'll have a hell of a time explaining_ this _to the Fuhrer_. Above, the entire ceiling of the massive hangar split in two, revealing a broad expanse of blue sky and bright sunlight; performing quite well considering his new and unfamiliar controls, IP-101 hit the thrusters, and Deepstar Five rocketed out into the open air. As the glass pinnacles of London opened up before them, 101's face split into a savage grin. "Hell yeah! How about _that,_ you bastards?!" The Captain smiled despite the pain in his gut…though they were far from finished, the mere act of stealing the ship back from their hated nemesis was a victory. 101 quickly returned to his usual professionalism, the Captain able to do little more than watch as the pilot rapidly located and flipped switches. "You're not going to believe this, but it looks like we still have a cloak," 101 remarked as he flipped up a newly installed protective panel and pressed the key beneath it. "Activating now." At that exact instant, however, a warning tone shrilled. The Captain swore; though he did not recognize the new and unfamiliar alarm note, he could already see two flashes on the proximity monitor.

"Looks like we've got company."

"Roger that, sir. Two enemy fighters, closing fast." 101 switched to the aft camera view, which clearly showed two hostile jet fighters cleaving through the air toward them. A new alarm warbled, this one frighteningly familiar. "They're locking missiles!" 101 jammed hard on his controls, Deepstar wobbling sluggishly forward on her unsteady thrusters, but SC-80 already knew it was no good. Deepstar might have been able to outrun her pursuers in a vacuum, but not in an atmosphere. _And that was before all the damage and improvised repairs._ They could not outrun their pursuers, unless…SC-80 was not sure whether it was desperate hope or actual prayer that ran through his mind as he brought up the warp interface. With the Doctor gone, the only hope of returning to the correct point in the past was the set of coordinates the computer had stored from the first Jump…SC-80's bloody fingers flew across the keys… _there it was_. He stabbed the entry button, and the computer gave a chirp in reply as it accepted the same set of space-time coordinates it had logged during the original journey.

"Engage the warp drive!" the Captain wheezed, forcing himself upright in his chair and yanking his restraints into place. 101 turned and stared at him for the briefest of moments…undoubtedly, a million unwelcome thoughts were running through the pilot's mind, all of the disastrous probabilities that scientists had predicted might happen if a warp engine were ever activated in an atmosphere… _Some said the resulting interaction of energy and matter would be equivalent to a nuclear explosion, decimating anything on the ground…Some believed that air would enter the warp corridor, and the resulting friction would tear a vessel apart._ Now was hardly the time to test the theory, but there was no choice. 101's glance lasted only a second. Then, without a word, he pressed the button.


	40. Righting the Wrong, Part 1

For an instant, IP-101 was certain they were about to die. When Deepstar jumped, it was anything but the smooth transition that the vessel had made on its first journey…the craft lunged violently forward like an animal springing from its cage, metal shrieking in protest. At first, it seemed to be the effect of an atmospheric warp jump…in a disconnected part of his mind, 101 realized the scientific precedent they had just set…but then the reality of the situation became apparent. Chadworth Industries had put Deepstar back together, but they could not have been expected to get everything perfect. In fact, they were still _very_ far from it. The impression of imminent death did not disappear…in fact, it grew stronger. The first thing that 101 realized was the lack of artificial gravity. Wrestling with his violently bucking controls, he had drifted up out of his seat before he was even aware of it. Growling a long string of curses, 101 yanked himself down and buckled himself in. He glanced over to check the Captain, finding that SC-80 had already secured his own restraints…but the lack of gravity was only the first problem. The violence of the initial jump remained, Deepstar thrashing about with such force it seemed impossible that the ship should stay together. The polarization of the forward windows had failed, a flood of psychedelic color and blinding light pouring into the cockpit. This combined with the constant screams of protesting metal and a harsh, rumbling vibration that must have been emanating from the Drive…and the result was pure sensory chaos.

101 let out a scream of wordless fury, his own voice lost in the shrieking roar of the ship; realizing the futility of attempting to use thrusters at warp, he relinquished his hold on the controls and let them whip about as they saw fit, wrapping his arms around his head in an attempt to shut out the horrible noise. He clenched his eyes tightly shut, now trapped inside his own head with nothing but the harsh, ragged sound of his breathing…and then, quite suddenly, it was over. _Am I dead?_ The thought was not meant in jest, and 101 slowly opened his eyes, halfway expecting to see…if he was honest with himself, he was not sure _what_ he expected to see, and he did not care to think too hard on it. But when he _did_ look, there was nothing but the inside of the bridge and the endless field of brilliant stars stretching beyond the viewports. For a brief and terrible moment, 101 feared they were truly lost…but then comprehension dawned. _We've returned to the exact same point in both space and time. It's just as it was on the first Jump…we've passed Earth._ Bringing the ship around, 101 was immediately greeted by the welcome sight of the planet, the world as it had existed decades before.

Compared to the jump, atmospheric reentry was positively pleasant. Granted that was a comparative assessment, and the ship lost several minor pieces of her grafted equipment in the descent. 101 ignored the master systems display, so long as it did not show anything wrong with the drive systems; the ship was slowly but steadily shaking herself to pieces, and she only had to hold together for one final flight. Miraculously, the cloak still worked, at least well enough to hide the ship from the casual observer. As the London of the past spread out below, a shocking change from the glittering metropolis of one possible future, 101 instinctively headed for the same building site where he had set her down the first time. As he eased into a slow descent, however, he was struck by the sudden realization: _We're already here._ Shifting the filter on the forward viewer just slightly, he could only stare as the computer revealed exactly what he had suspected: another Deepstar Five already crouched on the ground, three tiny figures just exiting from her underbelly. The impact of literally seeing himself in the past, however, was displaced by the inevitable realization: _There wasn't much time._

"We need a landing zone, anywhere big enough to set her down," the Captain grunted from his seat. "Just hurry."

"Sir." 101 circled in a widening pattern, searching for a location where he could hope to hide the second Deepstar and still be within walking distance of the street where Charlie Bucket would soon be finding (or _not_ finding) the ten-pound note that would change both his life and that of Willy Wonka. As the minutes dragged on, impatience became panic. And then 101 saw it…a narrow gap beneath a bridge, marking where a road crossed a drainage channel. There was no question. 101 pushed forward on the thrusters, swinging the spacecraft into the tiny gap; metal screeched briefly on concrete, but the paint was the last of 101's worries. Deepstar settled onto her landing struts with a bump, and 101 threw off his restraint harness. He stood up and eased himself over to the Captain's chair, knowing as he did so that the rest of this mission would be up to him. Though lucid, the Captain was pale and weak, and he certainly would not be able to make the distance to where the money had to be placed. SC-80 coughed, blood tricking from one corner of his mouth; with a trembling hand, he reached into the pocket of his vest and withdrew the ten-pound note. 101 fought off a horrible sense of déjà vu, the Captain looking exactly as 48 had just before he died. But, unlike 48, there was no resignation in the Captain's face. He took 101's hand firmly, looking him straight in the eye.

"It's up to you, pilot. Finish it."

101 placed a hand on 80's shoulder. "You hang in there, Captain." Taking the note, 101 moved swiftly to the ladder to the cargo hold and descended. He had no personal cloak, no sound suppression…he had no idea what effect it might have on people to see a tiny man running down the streets of London in a tactical vest, but he did not care. Let them think he was a midget, or a circus performer, or dwarf Royal Marine. _It didn't matter_. While he was well aware the risk of meddling with the past, he was willing to risk an insane rumor in the tabloids if it would buy back his lost future. _All of our lost futures._ As he left the ramp, 101 became aware of a large object hanging in the air behind him; the cloak had failed partially, exposing a section of the ship's flank. The pilot shook his head and kept moving. There was nothing to be done for it, and it was not likely that anyone would come wandering around under the bridge during the time he was gone. He scrambled to the top of the channel and found himself on the street…and then he was moving.


	41. Righting the Wrong, Part 2

He quickly located the stacks of the Wonka factory and used them as a reference, sprinting toward that all-important landmark as fast as his legs would carry him. Snow crunched under his boots, ice sending him sprawling several times…heedless of any pain, he scrambled to his feet and kept moving. People turned on the sidewalk, staring unabashedly as he passed, but he paid no attention to them. He reached the walls of the Wonka factory and started to turn left, toward where he believed the gates were…he was certain he could find the correct street again if he could use the factory gates as a reference. Only then he realized he was on the wrong side. Swearing, he took off again, forced to circle nearly half the perimeter of the massive facility…he wondered if any of his brethren might have been looking out of upper floor windows, staring as an apparently deranged compatriot ran down the street in a military uniform. 101's breath was coming shorter, his muscles burning with fatigue, but he never slowed. He drew exclamations of surprise from fellow pedestrians as he slid to a stop in front of the Wonka factory's main gates, his head hanging down between his knees as he quickly took stock of his surroundings. They had gone to the right from here, down to the corner before turning into the next street…he dashed across the road, narrowly avoiding a delivery van as it emerged from a nearby driveway. The driver shouted something and 101 whispered silent thanks that the van had not been moving even slightly faster: _I came all the way back into the past, only to doom the future when I was hit by a truck._ The idea was both so ridiculous and so appalling that 101 could not suppress a grin as he ran: _That would just top it all._

But the humor did not last. He reached the next corner, only something was wrong. He did not recognize this place. His eyes frantically swept the neat business fronts, hoping for any clue, but then he saw it directly across from him: the same alley where the crew had stopped to enjoy a bar of Chadworth chocolate, so very long ago…and yet not long ago at all. Waiting for a break in the light morning traffic, 101 darted into the mouth of the alley and crossed the next block, emerging onto what he instantly recognized as the right street.

 _This was it._ On the corner of the next block was the candy shop where even now his past self might be buying a bar of the enemy's candy in the interests of satisfying his curiosity…almost straight across from him was the same snowdrift where they had found the ten-pound note. 101 had no idea how long he had been running or where the past Deepstar crew might now be; he could not see the original ten-pound note from where he was, but it might have simply been the distance. He was about to cross the street and check when there was a crunch of snow to his right. He turned to see three tiny sets of footsteps moving toward him, apparently creating themselves of their own volition. Swearing, he ducked back into the alley… _in less than ten seconds, he was about to walk around the corner and come face-to-face with himself_. And as much as he liked the idea of blowing his own mind, 101 was fairly certain that making contact with a past copy of the Deepstar crew would cause more problems than it would solve. _We've already spent the money…no way to stop that._ 101 turned, looking frantically for any place to conceal himself. A cluster of garbage cans marked the only viable alternative, and he ducked into the narrow, stinking space behind them with another muttered curse. He could not see the snowdrift…Charlie Bucket might well pass while he hid here, waiting for the past versions of the crew to leave! The crunch of footsteps stopped, voices now coming clearly to him behind the trash cans…he tried to recall the flow of conversation, tried to remember how close they were to leaving. He shifted his position silently, trying desperately to see across the street, but it was of no avail. In fascination, he turned to look at the past members of his own crew…the past version of himself.

There was 48, alive again, and the Captain…101 ducked back, refusing to watch any more. Resolution burned in his chest: _SC-80 could not die_. Losing 77 and 48 had been bad enough, and the loss of the Doctor had been even worse. RP-18 had not been a soldier, an action hero; he was the scientist, an institution unto himself, the man that one did not expect to lose in combat. Now, if the Captain died, his mentor and superior officer…101 could not even process the idea. _He's not_ going _to die._ The moments passed with agonizing slowness, but at last the footsteps moved off…every nerve screaming at him to move, 101 forced himself to wait until he was certain the past Deepstar crew had gone before he stood and barreled across the street. His head jerked frantically from side to side, his only hope that the heir to the Company had not already come and gone. He yanked the ten-pound note from one of his vest pockets and jammed it into the snow, adjusting it several times before he finally forced himself to stop fiddling with it. Drawing his pistol, he rolled beneath a parked car nearby, his eyes fixed on the money. There was only once chance to set things right, and he would not allow it to go wrong. If anyone tried to pick up the money, anyone other than the heir…101 was not entirely sure what he planned to do…murder in the street was hardly a realistic option…all he knew was that he had one chance, and he would not allow anything to interfere with it. If he had to kill to protect the future, so be it. Several people passed his hiding spot, their shoes shiny and immaculate, and 101 tensed as he prepared to move. But no one stopped, no one reached down to the money.

And then a new set of shoes appeared. They were small and brown and heavily-worn, the seams open in several places and a section of the sole threatening to peel away on one heel. 101 tensed again, though not for the same reason; he shifted forward as far as he dared, trying to get a better view. He could now see the legs of threadbare pants and the lower fringe of a worn sweater, the clothes far too thin for the cold day. 101 craned his neck, hoping against hope…the worn shoes passed the money, stopped, but then suddenly turned back. Knees bent and a small, pale hand reached down, its movements almost reverent as it plucked the note from the snow…101 strained a bit further and then, for just an instant, he looked straight into the face of Charlie Bucket. The boy did not see him, his attention turning wonderingly to the candy shop down the street; a smile slowly spread across Charlie's face, and he took several hesitant steps in the direction of the candy store. Then the hesitant steps became quicker, and he was walking hurriedly toward the shop door, the bill held between both hands like some object of veneration. The door opened, Charlie Bucket disappeared inside, and 101 rolled out from beneath the car. He could not say how, could not put into logical terms what he felt, but an instinctive feeling of peace stole over him, a sudden calm. _We've done it. Everything would be all right. The future was safe._ He wanted to stay, to see Charlie Bucket come running out through that door with Golden Ticket in hand, but there was no time. He had to get back to the Captain, to make the Jump, to see with his own eyes whether or not things had been set right. He had done all he could here.


	42. Righting the Wrong, Part 3

While he wanted to rest his aching muscles, the time had not yet come. He turned and began running again, retracing his steps. The return journey was a blur, 101 thinking only of reaching the ship. There was no place to acquire first aid supplies, and they would not have done much good even if he had been able. The Captain was injured too severely. His only hope now was to reach the medics at the Lunar Base…indeed, this flight was everything. The ten-pound note was gone, and Deepstar Five would be lucky to survive even this one final Jump; there would not be any way to return to make further corrections to the timeline, and 101 could not even fathom the nightmare of trying to coordinate with _two_ past versions of himself. _Charlie Bucket picked up the money. We made a change, and I repaired it._ It was entirely possible that there were other changes to the timeline; perhaps buying that handful of Chadworth candy had altered the course of the future in some way, or perhaps picking up a newspaper had done it. But 101 had no control over these things, and no way to know what might have been done. All he knew was that Charlie Bucket had to find the Golden Ticket…and now, presumably, he had. _Whatever happens, history is going on its merry way. It's out of my hands now._

He slid down the embankment to the ship, hurling himself up the ramp and into the cockpit. Even though he was gasping for breath, he could not conceal the excitement in his voice. "Captain, I've…" but the words died in his throat. SC-80 did not turn at the pilot's approach, and the inescapable truth became clear. He was gone. The Captain looked peaceful, all trace of pain gone from his features; his eyes, dull but still clear, were fixed on the narrow strip of blue sky visible beyond the underside of the bridge. 101 reached up and closed the Captain's eyes, bowing his head in silent bitterness: _It's just me now_. A part of him wanted to sit down then, to simply sit down and not go any further, but the thought did not last. He heard the Captain's voice, as clearly as if he were really speaking: _You're not done yet, pilot. You have to make it…for all of us._ IP-101 nodded, looking into the Captain's calm face. He spoke quietly, more to himself than anyone. "All right, Captain…you just take it easy. I'm going to get you home."

Sitting down in the pilot's seat and strapping himself in, 101 took a deep breath and initiated the start sequence. He honestly doubted that the ship's engines would fire, but then they rumbled to life. After verifying the cloak was as stable as possible, he backed Deepstar Five out of her improvised berth and headed for orbit, intending to be well clear of the atmosphere before he engaged the Drive. _After losing my entire crew to set the past right, I'm not about to risk accidentally wiping London off the map, or sucking Charlie Bucket into a warp portal, or Fuhrer only knows what else._ Gravity again started to fade as the atmosphere parted, Deepstar Five's flight characteristics improving immensely as drag was lost. 101 maintained his course, heading out past the Moon before again engaging power to the warp engine. Recalling the coordinates of the second Jump from the computer, he punched them into the navigation system and braced himself for what he knew was about to come. "Moment of truth," 101 said aloud, his face arranging itself into a grim smile. _This was it._ He pressed the button.

 _Lunar Orbit_

Fate has a cruel way about it sometimes. IP-101 clearly remembered coming out of warp above the lunar surface, nearly colliding with the Chadworth fuel barge, and he was fully prepared to perform emergency braking maneuvers the moment the ship entered normal space. Unfortunately, while the ship was extremely accurate when it came to navigating time, it was far less so when it came to navigating space. 101 was prepared for almost anything, but there were still limits on what both he and the ship could do…the warp corridor opened, to reveal nothing but the grayish expanse of the lunar surface dead ahead. It was closer than 101 had anticipated…far closer. Even as he yanked hard on the stick and slammed his fist down on the button for the braking thrusters, he already knew he had no chance. But, for a few brief seconds at least, he was home. The voice of Traffic Control crackled across the radio, remembered like something from a dream: "Deepstar Five, you are at critical altitude! Pull up! Pull…" For a brief instant, 101 took in the outline of the Lunar Base on the lunar horizon, its familiar pattern of lights the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. And as the ship slammed into the Moon's surface, IP-101's last thought was one of supreme irony: _The flight recorder will give them some idea of what happened, but they'll never_ truly _know. They will never know that everything hung on the brink…that we destroyed the past and then rebuilt it with our bare hands. The Fuhrer…everything…ceased to be, was wiped from existence. But from the perspective of those here, nothing changed. At most, we disappeared for a couple of hours. We've discovered time travel, made one of the most incredible revelations in history. But no one will be there to tell the story._


	43. Epilogue

_Lunar Base_

Charlie Wonka sighed heavily. "Do you have _any_ idea what might have happened?"

The video monitor showed the head of the forensics team presently analyzing what little was left of Deepstar Five; they were working under the utmost secrecy, their reports limited to the eyes of Wonka and OS-22. News of the crash had been released to the general populace as a failed test of a new destroyer prototype, and the wreckage had promptly disappeared into the high-security labs. The analyst looked extremely uncomfortable as he shook his head. "None of it makes sense, my Fuhrer. Deepstar Five was off our screens for less than two seconds, but in that time she moved roughly twenty thousand kilometers opposite the intended direction, emerging from warp facing _the wrong way_. Her automatic safeties should have cut in well before she reached that altitude, but there's not enough left of her to pinpoint a malfunction. Based upon our analysis of the…the available traces, if you get my meaning…several of the crew were missing at impact; there were two, _possibly_ three men on board. There are also traces of foreign material embedded in the wreckage…some moon rock, obviously, but also large amounts of metal. It's some kind of titanium alloy, comparable to some of our own shipbuilding materials. What's strange is the composition; it matches nothing on record, nothing used by us or by any other known company on Earth."

OS-22, standing before the Fuhrer's desk, asked the next pertinent question: "What about the flight recorder?"

The technician's face grew even more troubled. "That's the strange thing. It's blank. It records the initial Jump, but nothing afterward until the last few seconds before impact."

"Corrupted?" Wonka asked.

"No. That's the thing. If it were, we would have some traces of the data. But there's... _nothing_. That's…that's not all…" The analyst paused, looking down at the paper in his hands as if trying to confirm what was written there.

Wonka raised an eyebrow. "Go on…"

The analyst put down the paper and blew out a heavy breath. "I…I can't explain it, sir. The flight recorder may have been blank, but the ship's internal chronometer was still running when we recovered it. Like the black box, these devices are bulletproof…well, more than that…meteor-proof, radiation-proof, you name it. I've never heard of one malfunctioning, either; they have a cesium clock built in, which is what makes them so accurate. According to the Lunar Base's own clocks, Deepstar Five's entire flight lasted approximately one hour, three minutes from liftoff until the crash. But according to the ship's onboard clock…" the analyst paused for so long that Wonka wondered if he was going to finish "…according to the ship's onboard clock, Deepstar Five was out of her berth for six months, twelve days, eight hours, and thirty-six minutes. I told you I couldn't explain it, sir."

Wonka shook his head. "Well, keep on it. Anything you can tell me will be most appreciated, especially about that foreign material."

"Yes, my Fuhrer." The analyst cut the link.

OS-22 stared intently at Wonka. "What the hell _happened_ out there?"

Wonka shook his head slowly, his expression bewildered. "Collision with a foreign object, malfunction…I wish I knew. What I wouldn't give for an intact flight recording…"

"Do you intend to terminate the project?"

Wonka glanced mildly at him. "Do you think I should?"

"That wasn't what I meant, my Fuhrer. I merely wondered…what do you intend to do?"

Wonka straightened his top hat. "We must press on, I think. No one regrets what happened more than I, but it would be an insult to the memories of six good men if we didn't continue the experiment…find where we went wrong and set it right. I know it sounds heartless, but progress always comes at a price. And if we give up, the sacrifices of those six become meaningless."

OS-22 nodded. "We may have the research and materials, but…without RP-18…"

"I know," Wonka said solemnly. "But I'm certain we can find another man. We must. We have to find out what happened."

OS-22 saluted. "I shall begin preparations immediately."


End file.
